


Rise from the Ashes

by the_bonny_wordsmith



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Consultant Draco, Dark Magic, Deathly Hallows compliant, Deputy-Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Hermione Granger, EWE, Epilogue What Epilogue?, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake Relationship, Head Auror Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealousy, Ministry of Magic, Murder Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, graphic description of violence, no ron bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bonny_wordsmith/pseuds/the_bonny_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A string of unsolved murders turns Dark when bodies start appearing again after a month, disfigured. Harry knows there are only two people who can help him on this case - Draco Malfoy, and Hermione. But can the past be put aside, and just how far are they going to have to go to solve the case? How many times will Hermione have to do the unthinkable? And a wand has gone missing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Potter's Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murder case gets turned over to the Aurors when evidence of Dark activity is found on the bodies, Lucius Malfoy is newly out of Azkaban, and Draco is about to discover that both his personal and professional lives are going to get much more complicated.

Draco sighed heavily, straightening his paper with a brusque flourish before folding it, tucking it back under his arm and checking the time. If his father kept this up much longer they would be truly late. Which of course was his father’s intention no doubt. The man was practically a professional at sulking, and his timing was impeccably inconvenient – as always.

Usually taking his mother – and now his father – to the Ministry twice a week for their classes was a next to weightless burden. Today, however, he did have a morning engagement. Draco tapped his shoe impatiently, the sound echoing in the vast entrance hall of the Manor. He hated having last minute meetings sprung on him.

He growled, unfolding the _Prophet_ again to study the leading article.

There wasn’t much movement in the magical photograph taking up the front page, given that it depicted a pair of dead bodies, but the shadows of people blocking the light source behind the camera flitted over the corpses every now and then. The faces of the victims had been purposefully left out of the top of the shot, but they were men, their naked white torsos filling the frame and glaring against the black of the ground, the letters E and W gouged, one on each of their chests. If the photo had been printed in colour, Draco was certain the grisly lettering would have been scarlet. The headline took what little was left of the page – _Will ‘The Seven’ Become Nine? Two More Bodies Found in Peckham_.

Draco pursed his lips for what felt like the umpteenth time since reading the article over his breakfast. The papers had named the previous string of killings ‘The Bloodless Seven’ after they had stopped a month ago, the case left cold. The Ministry had naturally copped a lot of flak from the papers and people writing into the _Prophet_ for their handling of the case. Someone from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had been in charge, the murderer assumed to be some kind of out-of-control creature, but their investigations had drawn naught. He had followed the case with mild interest, more to keep abreast of matters than out of true investment in the matter, and had to admit, the entire thing had been bungled. Draco snorted.

 _If_ the morning’s murders could be traced to the same killer, which was undoubtedly a human, why they had stopped then started again was beyond him. The Ministry certainly hadn’t been close enough to catching them to force a halt to the killings. Perhaps murder was tiring and they’d needed a break, although his aunt had never seemed to think so. The murderer’s apparent desire to practice the alphabet on humans was an escalation however, and not a comforting one.

Various clocks chimed nine, calling Draco back to his impatience.

“Come _ON!_ ” he bellowed. His voice rang along the polished marble corridor and out into the vast hall beyond that housed the main staircase, travelling up into the other floors of the house.

“Coming, coming! Possess your soul in patience!” called his mother, gliding down the stairs at last, resplendent in emerald green travelling robes and pulling on her gloves against the winter chill.

Draco eyed the long gloves with a raised eyebrow, his gaze travelling to her fur-trimmed winter cloak, and then to his sulking rugged up father as he grumpily descended the carpeted marble steps. Six years in Azkaban had done Lucius few favours, and despite the bulk of the many layers his wife had swathed him in, apparently concerned that a stray gust might carry him off, he looked frail. The lines lay deeper on his face, his eyes haunted and shrouded with shadows. Even his infamous mane of platinum hair looked lank and brittle. But he had only been out of prison three days. Even magic couldn’t erase six years’ ageing, no matter what claptrap witches’ beauty products claimed to be able to achieve.

Draco stiffened a little at the sight of his father, but retained his sardonic expression. “I’ve waited so long, I’ve aged, Mother,” he drawled, feigning a self-conscious stroke through his own hair. “And is all that really necessary? You’re hardly going to actually spend time outside.”

Narcissa pursed her lips at her son, but said nothing, and Draco did not pursue the matter. The light had returned to her eyes with his father’s homecoming, and he had no wish to douse it.

Aware of the indulgence in her son’s gaze, Narcissa turned back to her loitering husband instead and wrapped his cloak and scarf more firmly about him, chivvying him along towards the massive fireplaces near the front door as she did so, veering right towards the one for departures.

“Come along, Lucius! Being late to your first re-education class won’t make a good impression.”

Draco could tell from her tone that his mother had been exhorting his father in this fashion the entire time they had been upstairs. She’d taken on a nagging quality that she only did when she was fussing, and neither of them had yet managed to refuse her solicitude when she was in such a state, no matter how exasperating they might find it.

Lucius muttered something unintelligible that probably involved a number of disparaging comments about the Ministry, and kicked half-heartedly at the house elf who had appeared to hand him his cane – still unoccupied by a wand. The elf squealed a little, dodging most of the glancing blow, but was otherwise silent. The Ministry had flatly refused to allow the replacement of the lost or destroyed wands of the Death Eaters, or even the ex-Death Eaters, and the fact that Lucius’s old wand had been a Malfoy heirloom for over a thousand years before the Dark Lord had destroyed it did little to improve his bitterness regarding the fact.

Draco rolled his eyes, his expression as sour as his father’s. A fleeting image of a scowling Granger darted across his mind. She had been the one to push through the bill on house elf rights a few years ago, much to the displeasure of Pureblood owners. She’d likened it to the abolition of slavery in the Muggle world. What his father had just done was probably illegal. _Whatever._ How the servants should be treated could be argued over another time. Even so, Draco twitched slightly at the thought of Granger, uncomfortably aware of the bad blood that still subsisted between them, despite the fact that he and Potter had settled their differences. He pushed the matter to one side, however.

“We could always arrange your return to Azkaban,” he snapped, frowning at his recalcitrant father. “I assume it must be a great deal more comfortable now there are no Dementors standing guard, and I do have a meeting with the Head of the Auror Office that you’re making me late for; I’m sure he’d oblige.” He didn’t mean it of course, but his father needed to remember that there were conditions on his release. The vast majority of the wizarding world still considered him a war criminal, which, technically he was – defected Death Eater or not – and that meant he had to do what the Ministry expected of him. Which naturally rankled for Lucius.

 “Draco!” Narcissa turned an outraged expression on her son, and Lucius’s eyes narrowed with a glint of his old terrifying anger.

Draco shrugged, stopping just short of insolence. “It’s true.” He met Lucius’s gaze squarely. He wasn’t the little boy who had hungered for his father’s approval and affection anymore – he was twenty-three and a man, and had been head of the family in his father’s absence for six years. He’d had time to think, and time to grow up, and although the flash chased a flicker of the old respectful fear for his father through Draco’s heart, it was easily expelled. His father was not in charge anymore. “Come on, then,” he muttered, putting out his hands to grasp his mother and father’s.

Narcissa took her son’s hand readily, but Lucius scowled darkly. He might have lost weight in Azkaban, but his temper was as it had ever been if not worse. “Reduced to this just for freedom,” he spat.

Narcissa frowned at her husband. She had adjusted better to the changes since the Dark Lord’s death, her behaviour at the end going far to mitigate a great deal of the punishment that might otherwise have befallen an aide to Voldemort and his Death Eaters, even if she had never strictly speaking been one. Permanent house arrest and no wand were light terms given the circumstances. It had remained a rough journey for her, however, especially with her husband in prison and the family disgraced, but Lucius did not seem to even be aware of the fact. They were wan, the pair of them, but Lucius seemed to have settled for a poisonous kind of discontent that grated against her determination to make the best of the situation. Prison tended to have that effect.

Draco wondered privately whether his father would ever let go of his blood purity issues. He himself had managed to slough off the Pureblood prejudices and racism he had been indoctrinated into as a child, but then he wasn’t his father. Currently, it seemed more likely that the murderer would turn them self in before his father renounced his hatred. But if Lucius was to stay out of prison, he had to change. Which was the point of these re-education classes, of course. Draco was sceptical about their effectiveness on people like his father, who was quite determined to think of Muggles as lesser beings as he had done so his entire life, regardless of what achievements the Ministry curriculum would illustrate. But it was what the Ministry wanted to do, somehow deeming it a viable way of reducing blood prejudices towards Muggle-borns, and was therefore law.

It was a bit much to expect of a man freshly out of prison – even a prison without Dementors – but Draco couldn’t help but want to slap his father and scream at him to pull himself together. Prison was no picnic, but neither was living in a society where no one trusted you. It had been an uphill struggle getting himself and his mother to where they were now, and Draco had had to go to the Ministry more than once to apply for Auror protection in the first year after finishing school.

Draco glared at his father, leaning forwards to grab a pinch of floo powder from the silver basin above the fire. “Your situation could easily be far worse, Father. House arrest after only six years in Azkaban is practically unheard of for an ex-Death Eater.”

“You seem to have done all right,” Lucius snarled mutinously.

Narcissa’s face turned white, the leather of her gloves squeaking under the strain as she clenched her hands, and Draco’s previously patiently irate expression became flat, taking on the signature controlled indifference of Malfoy anger as he withdrew his hand from the floo bowl, the powder untouched.

He turned to his father, and although his expression remained blank, his pale skin had tautened over the hard planes of his face, and his eyes burned with something like fury. “I was under age and forced to take the Mark against my will. Or have you forgotten in your absence the exact circumstances leading up to my initiation? I know that, given you were also away at the time, the details may be somewhat hazy for you.” His voice had become so cold the temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees.

“And I suppose you regret the choice you made, do you?” Lucius spat, challenging his son to agree.

The control over Draco’s features flickered for a moment, and true anger, scorching in its intensity, showed for a moment. “I didn’t _have_ a choice, Father. That’s the thing about blackmail. Having a choice is an illusion. There is only ever one option to take, and I don’t know whether I would take it given a chance to do that over again.”

Narcissa gasped at the admission, her hands flying to her mouth, watching her husband and son verbally attempt to crush one another in the most devastating way possible.

“Well, as you never visited me in my _cell_ , I don’t suppose your regretting saving my life really comes as a surprise – even if you are my son,” Lucius returned viciously.

Draco opened his mouth to retort that if his father had placed looking after his family slightly higher than his allegiance to an insane psychopath then he would never have been put in that situation to begin with, and maybe Lucius would never have faced Azkaban in the first place, but was stopped by his mother’s impassioned interruption.

“Stop it! Just stop it – both of you!”

Father and son turned simultaneously to take her in.

Narcissa’s eyes were red with unshed tears, her distress evident in the tremor of her voice, and the way her hands shook despite her best attempts to still them. “We have not survived all the hellfire that could be thrown at us to tear ourselves apart!” she cried, equal parts admonition and supplication.

Draco dropped his head, sighing deeply, guilt washing through him at his mother’s expression. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, eyes screwed shut. A confrontation was the exact opposite of what he had been planning for his first encounter with his father since his release. He had guessed _something_ might happen, but dredging up the worst parts of the past had not been on his mind, nor in his intentions, and it simply would not do it go into his meeting in a temper.

Two feet away from his son, Lucius went through similar motions of controlling his anger, although his expression remained resentful.

The ticking of the clocks filled the silence that hung between the Malfoys, remaining Draco that they were already pressed for time. Reining in his anger with immense difficulty, he composed himself, lifting his head and reaching for the floo powder once more. “You would do well to forget the past and do your best to start afresh, Father,” he said, coolly.

Lucius’s scowl deepened, degraded to the point of being lectured by his own son, and he avoided his wife’s reproachful gaze. “When did you become so righteous?” he muttered, but the venom was lacking from his tone.

Draco glanced at his father. “A lot can change in six years, Father.” He paused. “Welcome back, by the way.”

Lucius snorted.

Draco threw the glittering powder into the fire, which roared green, and took his father’s hand firmly in his own, the three of them stepping forwards as he shouted, “The Ministry of Magic!”

 

The Ministry was always busy, but today it was writhing like an overturned ant’s nest. The serenely winking gold runes in the peacock blue of the atrium ceiling had never looked so out of place, curving high above the frenetic scurrying of Ministry works across the dark polished floorboards.

Harry Potter appeared in one of the gilded fireplaces on the left side of the atrium in a blast of green flames, and dusted the soot off his robes looking harassed. It was the third time he had come back into the Ministry that morning and it was only just nine o’clock. He sighed heavily. _They’re going to give us hell for weeks if this isn’t resolved. And we’ve got a snowballs chance of that happening soon._ He thought of Kingsley, and wasn’t surprised that the Minister flooed directly into his office from home. It was a security precaution that only the Minister could floo into the Ministry’s internal fireplaces, as it necessitated that Kingsley’s home was a next to impenetrable fort. All other employees could only floo out from the office fires. Still, Harry envied him the privilege, especially on days like today.

The turbulence of people before him did little to improve his mood as he sallied forth, hurrying quickly from the hearth he had arrived in before the next user appeared and cannoned into his back, moving with the surging tide towards the golden gates at the far end of the atrium, and the lifts beyond. Voices surrounded him on all sides, but no one approached him. Everyone seemed to know not to engage the sour-faced head of the Auror Office today.

As he passed the new Fountain of Magical Brethren (deeply relieved, as always, that the petition to install a new fountain with statues of him, Ron, and Hermione had been scrapped), he spotted the horde of reporters clustered near the golden gates barring them entry to the Ministry. There were nearly a dozen spread out along the gates, pressing against the magical barrier charmed to keep them out, and badgering likely looking Ministry workers as they passed through into the Ministry. Aurors were usually easy to spot; casually outlandish in their dress and sporting scars from their run-ins with the Dark wizards they caught, and a number looked like they had become close to drawing wands to deal with the tenacious reporters accosting them.

A frown creased the famous lightning bolt scar on his forehead, and Harry pulled the collar of his robes up, hunching his shoulders as he flattened down his fringe, doing his best to get mixed up in a group from Magical Maintenance, hoping to get past the reporters before they spotted him.

No such luck.

“ _It’s Harry Potter!_ ”

Repressing the urge to jinx whomever it was into a jelly, Harry soldiered on as the reporters rushed towards him, trampling Ministry workers in their eagerness to get to him first. He had to battle his way diplomatically forwards, making very little headway despite his efforts as they remained in jostling formation about him, voices and questions and camera flashes raining down on him from all directions.

“Mr Potter! Can you confirm that this morning’s murders are linked to the unsolved case of the Bloodless Seven?” “What kind of Dark activity has the Aurors involved?” “What is the significance of the letters carved in the bodies?” “If the cases are linked, what was the meaning of the month-long gap?” “Were the victims wizards or Muggles?” “Who _were_ they?” “Could this be another attempted uprising of You-Know-Who’s sympathisers?” “Will we be seeing you at the Harpies match this weekend?”

Harry tuned out the incessant buzz of questions as best he could, pushing on towards the checkpoint, and wrestling his way out of the huddle and through the gates. He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed over the line that kept the reporters from accessing the Ministry proper, straightened his round glasses and robes, and crossed the small hall, making for the constantly shuttling lifts and his office, the cries of the reporters following him. Today was going to be nightmarish.

 

Harry sat hunched in his chair, trying to sort out the morass of interdepartmental memos swamping his desk about the case. Everyone had something to say about the subject, apparently – right down to Magical Maintenance, who were complaining about the marks the reporters’ camera tripods were leaving on the atrium floorboards. That memo had been incinerated. The air was thick with those still circling above his head, the planes filling his usually spacious office with paper-based clutter.

At the knock on his door, he looked up, not sure whether relief or further grief was about to enter.

 “Come in!”

Draco Malfoy entered, suave as ever, his expression as uncertain as it was possible while still shuttered with the classic Malfoy impassiveness and native superiority. Harry had become quite good at decoding it.

“Malfoy – please sit a moment.”

Draco took a seat, brushing off a few fallen memos and straightening his already immaculate black robes with a flash of platinum cuff-links, studying Potter over the desk.

With age had come maturity – which was more than could be said for some – and after Potter had testified in his mother’s trial, Draco had had to admit that he did owe the Boy Who Lived a few massive favours. He hadn’t demurred when Potter had asked him for information on escaped Death Eaters in the years after the War, and had actually become an integral cog in the operation to round up those that had escaped after the battle of Hogwarts. Potter had been the only one willing to risk his help in Ministry business, and because he was Potter, the Chosen One and the Boy Saviour, people hadn’t caused too much fuss.

After that, he had become something of a consultant on any unknown Dark item the Aurors discovered, always at Potter’s request. They had buried the hatchet a year or so after, much to Weasley’s displeasure. Draco regularly thanked Merlin that the Wonder Duo weren’t partners in the Auror Office. Potter and Longbottom had had to drag Weasley off him in a very well-publicised nasty little incident at the Ministry’s annual gala held to celebrate the ending of the War and the death of Voldemort, which had put paid to any reconciliation on that front three years back.

Weasley, it seemed, would never quite get over their old school rivalries, and Draco had a sneaking suspicion that Potter had always tried to engineer their meetings when the redhead was otherwise occupied. The near brawl made such precautions necessary, as even though Draco was perfectly capable of maintaining his composure, Weasley clearly had no such control. What was more Draco had no intention to go out of his way to avoid Weasley when he was needed at the Ministry, even for the sake of diplomacy. That particular problem was Weasley’s to handle if he couldn’t reconcile himself to the fact that his friend and boss occasionally needed help from a Malfoy.

Potter, however, was sort of decent to be around – although Draco would never have admitted it to anyone – and was at the very least reliable, not to mention predictable. They had had enough meetings for Draco to have learnt his mannerisms, and he could see quite easily that the world was weighing heavily on the shoulders of the young head of the Auror Office.

Harry had run his hands through his hair so many times that its naturally untidy state had been surpassed, reaching the point where he appeared as though he had been repeatedly electrocuted, every follicle on end and determined to point in a different direction to its fellows. With a grunt, Harry waved his wand at the papers covering his desk and the floor and those still flying above his head, and they sorted themselves into not-quite tidy piles, making the office suddenly look a great deal more organised. Hermione could have done better, but it was sufficient to ease some of the chaos of his mind.

“I’m assuming you don’t want to order potion ingredients,” Draco began, seeing Potter was at last ready, “although you look like you could really do with a calming draught.”

Harry nodded, appreciating Malfoy’s dry attempt at cheering him up and actually smiling a very little. It was subtle enough that anyone who didn’t know the Malfoy heir well would have missed it. “You’ve seen the papers, I suppose?”

Draco chucked his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ onto the desk in answer. “Is it related to the previous series of killings like they’re saying? And more to the point: how in Merlin’s name did the press get hold of it so fast?”

Harry sighed, adjusting his glasses. “It might be. This morning’s bodies were found close enough to that of the first killings in the other case that we have to consider a connection likely. We’re looking into it – but we can’t be sure; these ones are…different.”

“You don’t say,” Draco muttered humourlessly, eyeing the gory photograph once more. “I assume there’s Dark magic involved, seeing as you have the case now?” Potter’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Draco sensed the Auror was debating something, aware that further information was being withheld. It was unusual. Usually Potter called him in and laid things out. Something was different about this, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a little unsettled by it. He changed tack. “And the press?”

“Bad luck,” Harry muttered, grimacing. He scanned the front page of the paper, and the three-page spread inside recapping the bungled case of the Bloodless Seven. The victims smiled and blinked up at him, the photos of them in life horribly juxtaposed against those from the crime scenes, their desiccated bodies illuminated in harsh detail by the camera flashes, eyes sunken, and their shockingly pale skin like a loose garment. Of course, their bodies hadn’t been defaced, but the new ones hadn’t been exsanguinated. “Reporters got to the scene before we could set up repelling charms, so we cut a deal with them.”

“You _what_?!” Draco snapped. Surely he’d misheard. Potter had as much, if not more, experience with the press as he had. Getting involved with them on any level was asking for trouble.

Harry sighed heavily, resting his head on his hands. “Lesser of two evils, Malfoy. They got the photos to print – but we took them.” He looked up, collecting himself, but his face remained drawn. “I’m going to need you on this case – and I don’t mean as just a consultant.”

Draco frowned. “I don’t want to be an Auror, Potter.”

“I’m not asking you to be one. You’ll still technically rank as a civilian. I’m asking you to be on the team, full time. This isn’t something that will be solved with a few hours of research. You’ll have full Ministry protection and pay, but you also have to abide by our rules. We’ll try to keep you out of any combative fieldwork if it comes to that, but I need you here for the duration of the case.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something? And by ‘something’ I mean everything.”

Harry met his suspicious gaze directly. “Because I am. And I won’t until you agree to be on the team, and meet my conditions.” Harry knew he’d hooked Malfoy’s interest – curiosity and a genuine, if repressed, desire to help were the reasons their odd partnership had developed in the first place, and lasted.

The two men eyed each other, diametrically opposed. One pale and expensively attired, his white blond hair indolently styled, silver-grey eyes calm and incisive; the epitome of composure. The other, rumpled and stressed, tie twisted sideways beneath his collar, concerned green eyes beneath his wild black hair, the infamous lightning bolt scar only just concealed by his fringe.

Draco pursed his lips, clicking his tongue thoughtfully as he leant back in his chair. He knew Potter was playing him. But Potter had also come to him the moment the case had come up – and that was rare. And interesting. It had to be bad – it was too early for them to be desperate. “What are the other conditions?” he asked slowly.

Harry grinned. “Confidentiality is the biggest one – obviously. _No one_ not involved on the case can know anything without my clearance. You’ll have to abide by Ministry regulations as far as what spells are acceptable, as well as on jurisdictional and procedural matters, and you’ll have to go through basic Auror training to make sure you’re safe to go in the field – if you’re not cleared by our instructors you can only help from behind the lines. As there is a degree of risk involved in being on this case, the Ministry will send Aurors to your home and the Manor to ensure they are well protected, just to be on the safe side. We won’t advertise your involvement, but there’s always a possibility that working with us could make you a target. They’re the main points. Oh, and you’ll have to sign a magical binding contract to the effect.”

Draco rolled his eyes at the last bit. “Of course.”

“Nothing beats the red tape,” Harry quipped with a shadow of a laugh. His eyes remained on Draco, however, watching him with anxious intentness.

Draco considered for a moment. Then nodded. “So what’s this flaming secret of yours?”

“Uh-uh, Malfoy – sign first; answers later.” Harry pulled a contract out of his drawer and put it on the table in front of Malfoy to read.

“You were very certain that I’d agree,” Draco commented wryly, leaning forwards to peruse the details of the fine print. It was pretty much as Potter had stated, with a few extra minor details. The thing was ironclad.

Harry restrained a grin. “I had confidence in you.”

Draco blinked, looking up from the contract and frowned. “How can I be sure that you’re the real Potter? Polyjuice isn’t so hard to make you know.”

Harry laughed at that. “You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”

Draco snorted richly, picking up a quill and signing the contract with a flourish. “Just imagine our younger selves watching this. Potter and Malfoy – a trusting team, ready to save the world.” He threw the quill back down. “My father will be sick if he hears about this.”

“Better have a bucket on standby, then,” Harry muttered, rolling up the contract.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Answers, Potter. Spill.”

Harry turned, waving his wand at the wall to the left of his desk. In an office this large, it ordinarily would have been an enchanted window. Instead, the entire thing was a huge pin board from ceiling to waist height. At Harry’s direction all the notes and memos pinned to it turned translucent, revealing the real information board behind it.

Sectioned off on the far right were the photographs and details from the Bloodless Seven. On the left were the details of the latest killings. The photographs to this were similar to the ones in the _Prophet_ , save that the scene hadn’t been cleaned up. The bodies were almost invisible under the thick coating of blood in these, little lumps of skin and flesh casting odd shadows in the camera flashes. There was one other difference that explained exactly why the Ministry had cut a deal with the papers, taking the photographs themselves, however, and why Potter had deemed a contract necessary.

Under splatters of blood, Dark Marks gaped sinisterly on the victims’ left forearms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the cliff-hanger/twist!
> 
> So this is going to be a pretty long fic - my first extended Dramione. I've been working on it for a while now, and I'm happy to start posting. It's going to be a magical murder mystery with a twist that made reading "The Cursed Child" kind of hilarious.  
> Oh, also, because this is a murder mystery, there will be continued descriptions of bodies at the crime scenes, etc. (and there will be some torture scenes way down the track) so if that's a bit too much, I'm sorry, but this isn't the fic for you.
> 
> I know Hermione doesn't make an appearance in this chapter, but she'll get a proper mention and initial appearance in the next one, the real Draco-Hermione interactions will start in chapter 3 (quite explosively, might I add)!  
> All is most definitely not well between Draco and Lucius - lots of daddy issues to hash out there in later chapters! I hope it wasn't too much of an information dump with the case, I tried to be clear and concise. Erm...that's it for now, I think.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Please give kudos, comment, and/or bookmark if you did!
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	2. The Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco provides an alarming revelation about the case, and discovers that Harry's counterpart on the case is not someone with the fondest memories of him.

The black skull and twisting serpent tattoos seemed to writhe before Draco’s eyes, and he rose to his feet, lips parted, eyes wide. He’d assumed some Dark curses had been used, perhaps an artefact left behind. Not _this_.

He tore his eyes away from the images of the Marks repeated over and over in the various photographs, but he could still see the design imprinted on his eyelids when he blinked. “What does this mean, Potter?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Harry admitted ruefully, a hand going through his hair once more. “Fugitive Death Eaters killing those that defected is nothing new. We managed to collar Yaxley when he did it back in ninety-nine. We’ve dealt with Voldemort sympathisers before.”

Draco nodded. He remembered the case; it had caused a great deal of upset amongst those who had defected and testified to the Ministry, and the security on Azkaban had been tightened threefold to ensure the safety of the inmates from any kind of retribution. He sensed there was more, however. “But?”

Harry sighed. “But, there _is_ a possibility that we have vigilantes going after Death Eaters, which would put a very different spin on things.” He watched the tense breath that narrowed Malfoy’s nostrils as he breathed in, and couldn’t help but admire the man’s self-control. “There’s been a murmur of anti-Pureblood groups gathering and growing in strength. The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol has already arrested a few people – breaking up gatherings and the like. We can’t let that kind of thing be encouraged by allowing them to make the papers. Blood prejudice in any form isn’t good.” He sighed, his face turning haggard for a moment as he thought of the battle that whole matter would become if it couldn’t be quelled soon, then rallied himself. “We’d like you to identify the victims, if you can – they’re not on any of our existing lists or files, and we’re basically in the dark until we can figure who they are, and therefore, why anyone might have wanted to kill them in such a gruesome fashion. We want to narrow down whether they’d defected or not.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, well aware of the implications of both outcomes. Either way the situation could head south very quickly, especially for him. Even now, public opinions about the Malfoys were mixed, and vigilantes weren’t always the most clear-sighted of individuals. To most, ex-Death Eaters were still Death Eaters; remorse didn’t absolve past crimes, and most pleas of such feelings were regarded with deep scepticism in any case. He pulled his thoughts together, smoothing the frown that had creased his brow and nodded. “Show them to me.”

Harry flicked his wand at a pair filing cabinets standing in the far right corner opposite the door, and a set of keys twisted in the seventh of the twelve locks that lined the top of each. Malfoy swivelled in his chair to watch as the middle drawers slid out impossibly far, each tray containing one of the cold bodies of the victims.

Draco turned back and raised an eyebrow at Potter. “You know that isn’t a normal use for a filing cabinet.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s a necessary one, unfortunately.”

Draco considered asking whether Potter had an entire morgue of bodies stashed in the innocuous looking cabinets, but decided against it. Some things were best left unknown. Instead, he approached the bodies, avoiding looking at them. They were mercifully placed under a cryo spell, and despite the fact that they had not been dead long, Draco did not much care for the smell of slowly decomposing corpse in the morning.

“I suppose the Marks are _real_?” he asked warily, not entirely sure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

Harry sighed. He had risen to his feet as well, following Malfoy around his desk, and standing a few paces back to give the man room. “They won’t come off if that’s any indication, but we haven’t tried everything yet – I know you’ve got more experience in this than me. I was hoping you might be able to tell us. They _could_ just be an extremely well done hoax. Some sort of tattoo crossed with a permanent sticking charm to ruffle the real Death Eaters and flush them out – or a red herring thrown in by the murderer to make us go off track.” His tone held the slightest sliver of hope that the case might be that innocuous, but it was clear that he thought their chances of it being so simple were slim. “If so, it’s a pretty elaborate ruse. Either that or the victims could just have been a couple of idiots who thought they’d show off stupid tattoos to the wrong people like those kids a while back. It would still mean we have a murderer – vigilante or Death Eater – but it would definitely make the case separate to the Seven.”

Draco grunted, reluctant to examine the Marks. He could feel the empty eye sockets of the black skulls staring at him. His skin burned with the relived pain of receiving his own, and he kept his eyes focused but unseeing on the men’s faces.

“We’re assuming they’re wizards,” Harry continued. “But we’re running their photographs through the Muggle Liaison Office in case Muggle CCTV footage has picked them up anywhere. We’re trying to keep all our options open at the moment. The only other case it reminds me of is the Piccadilly incident when we finally caught Mulciber burning the Mark into Muggles.”

Draco remembered that case well. Potter had taken him to one of the crime scenes to look at the artefact Mulciber had been using, a torture device used by medieval wizards similar to Muggle branding irons, and the acrid stench of charred flesh had still been thick in the air. He hadn’t been able to eat meat for a month.

Draco grunted again. This whole case was already leaving a sour taste in his mouth and a prickle at the back of his neck, and he hadn’t even been on it for five minutes. He peered down at the bodies. Apart from the obvious, there were no marks on their bodies indicating how they had died. Not even bruises to mark any sort of a struggle. “How were they killed?”

“Killing Curse – we think. There are no obvious indicators on the bodies beyond the Marks and the letters, so we’re going with that until the Magical Forensics Squad can find anything to indicate they died of anything else.” Harry ran his hands through his hair, frustrated by the number of unknown variables he was working with. It was like trying to put together a puzzle when all the pieces were blank. “I’m still waiting on the report. They don’t know whether the chest incisions were made before or after death – so it’s quite possible that they just bled out, but Forensics aren’t even sure what spell was used yet.”

Draco narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Potter, withholding a remark about departmental efficiency. “When did the murders happen? You should be able to pick up traces of Dark Magic if it was the Killing Curse.” He pulled out his wand, passing it over first one then the other and examining the misty emanations that appeared a foot above the bodies.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “The night before last.”

Draco shot him a frown, dismissing the mist. Most spells didn’t leave magical traces beyond a day or so, but powerful magic like the Unforgivables were different. They were too Dark to fade completely. The spells that would trace their residue after so long were beyond his knowledge, however.

“Why did it take so long to find the bodies?” He couldn’t help the snappish bite that made its way into his tone, and gestured at the gory photographs. “They’re hardly easy to miss – and the magical signatures from whatever curses were used should have been sending up a flag a mile high.”

Potter actually coloured at that, shuffling his feet and coughing slightly. “We didn’t actually find them. Some Muggles stumbled across the bodies and called the police.” He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly as Draco turned the full force of his disapproving glare on him.

“You obliviated the Muggles who found them, right?”

Harry nodded, glad to have regained ground somewhat. “Yeah. We wiped their memories, and those of the police. Until we know more about what we’re dealing with, it’s best if we keep it a wizarding matter only. I’d rather not involve the Muggle police if I can help it.”

Draco nodded. Letting Muggles know about wizarding criminals was only ever done in extreme circumstances when the Muggles were in severe danger from them – like with the missing Death Eaters. Doing that with this case could potentially send the wizarding community into a panic. At the moment the matter was simply a grisly bit of gossip for the foolish to delight over, thrilling in the scandalousness of it in their ignorance. Which was exactly what Potter wanted, no doubt. Ignorance was bliss.

Harry cleared his throat, straining to appear confident. “Once we’re finished with the bodies they’ll go back to the Squad. They’re still working on establishing a time bracket for the curses used, relative to estimated time of death, and then they’ll focus on identifying the spells used. Part of me really hopes they find something to suggest it wasn’t the Killing Curse. Unforgivables make the case simpler but…” He sighed.

“Much more dangerous,” Draco finished gravely. Only Death Eaters would use an Unforgiveable Curse. Even the angriest average witch or wizard didn’t usually have the necessary conviction to cast the Killing Curse. It took more than anger – it required a true desire for death and pleasure in taking the life. He didn’t like the sound of those anti-Pureblood groups, however. It was the same way the Death Eaters had begun.

Harry nodded, leaning back against the edge of his desk as Draco returned to his inspection of the bodies. They were naked from the waist up and clean. The letters remained a blackish red against their death-paled skin, the gashes a good two inches wide and the same deep, the edges of the flesh ragged. They were gouges, not cuts. Calling them cuts would indicate some sort of precision and neatness, and neither applied to the gaping furrows that had been ploughed into these men’s chests.

“You said a spell was used to make the letters…” Draco focused on not bringing up his breakfast, ruthlessly compartmentalising his emotions, and distancing himself from the gruesome spectacle. “Couldn’t it have been a weapon or an appendage?” he flicked his wand, the tip lighting up, and angled the beam into the fleshy channels, peering in.

Harry shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, Malfoy, but we’re positive this has nothing to do with any magical creature. They only thought of vampires and things with the other seven because the blood had been drained, and while these two lost a lot of blood, it was all around them – it hadn’t been…sucked out, for want of a better word. All their internal organs are still intact, if damaged. No creature did this. We’ve looked into the other bodies too and it was definitely a spell that exsanguinated them. All the murders are the work of a witch or wizard.”

Draco nodded. Whatever curse it had been, it was savage. The gashes weren’t particularly deep, but they bypassed muscle and bone with apparent ease so that the rib cages had fallen in, disregarding all considerations of ease or practicality. The wounds felt…raw. Feral, even. He repressed a shudder and turned his gaze to the victim’s faces. They were middle aged, stubbly with dark unkempt hair, completely unremarkable to look at. He could pass a dozen such men in the street and never register the presence of any of them for a moment.

He turned back to Potter, shaking his head. “I don’t recognise them. Either I never met them, or…” Draco found his eyes drifting unwillingly to the Dark Mark on the nearest cadaver’s forearm.

“Or what?” Harry was on his feet again, nerves alight. He could hear the urgency in his voice as he watched Malfoy lean over again. He didn’t want to derail Malfoy’s thoughts if they might help, but the whole case had them blinking in the dark so far, and there had been something speculative in Malfoy’s tone that had his instincts jumping.

Draco examined the Dark Mark in minute detail, before craning his neck to peer at the one on the other body. He muttered something, waving his wand, and staring at the emanations that appeared above each, then stood back, his expression close to cracking. “The Marks are new.”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry almost dropped his wand, gaping, unable to process the declaration for a few moments before his brain dropped back into use, exploding with a blinding array of concerns and questions. He collected himself and moved closer. “What makes you so sure?”

“Look.” Draco rolled up his own sleeve, waving his wand over his forearm to reveal the ugly Mark his concealment charm had hidden, putting his arm near that of the closest corpse.

Whereas Draco’s magically revealed Dark Mark was a faded shade of grey, having diminished since the moment of Voldemort’s death, and remained despite his many attempts to magically remove the brand, the Marks on the corpses were burnt black, raised up, the edges still swollen.

Draco tapped his skin with his wand, the concealment charm rippling back over the Mark, and dropped his sleeve. “The Marks are real. You can test theirs against mine if you don’t believe me.”

Harry nodded numbly.

Draco frowned. “It makes no sense. The Dark Lord is gone – no one should have new Marks, and putting that to one side, who reformed the Death Eaters? Why hasn’t there been _any_ word of it? There should have at least been a whisper – rumours – _anything_! And why would new initiates be dead after receiving their Marks?”

Harry watched Draco pace on the spot, the Malfoy heir more agitated than he had ever been in their entire time working together.

Draco resisted the urge to screw his hands up into his hair as Potter had done, spinning on the spot, and marshalling his thoughts.  “We need to find out whether the Mark was put on them before or after they died. If before, whether they were willing. And we’ve _got_ to know why in Merlin’s name someone’s running around doing it six years after the Dark Lord’s death. They’ve got to be wizards – they wouldn’t brand a Muggle, and I doubt they’d survive the curse anyway.” He hissed slightly, meeting Potter’s eyes grimly. “I’ve only ever seen _Him_ create Dark Marks, Potter.”

Harry’s blood seemed to stop flowing as the reason for Malfoy’s agitation became clear.

Voldemort. Back.

Questions and speculations flooded his mind. What if Voldemort had made another horcrux they hadn’t known about? Dumbledore had always seemed to know – seemed to be one step ahead, but what if he’d missed something? What if He _was_ back? He’d done it before.

Harry shook himself. _No. He’s dead. He died. I killed him. That’s over now._ Harry turned to regard the bodies for a moment, then shut the drawers with a swish of his wand. _Or was it…?_

“What spell did he use?”

“Morsmordre.” Draco supplied dully.

“But that summons the Dark Mark in the sky, doesn’t it?” Harry frowned.

Draco nodded as they sat on either side of the desk once more. “It’s possible that someone with sufficient power might be able to use it to create a Mark. But…” Draco shook his head.

Silence filled the office as they remained sunk in their respective thoughts and the weight of the implications of Draco’s revelation.

“Is it possible…that He–?” Draco began hesitantly.

Harry stood abruptly shaking his head. “No. Voldemort is dead – all that is done with. We destroyed all his Horcruxes – there are no pieces of his soul left for him to regenerate from. I would know. This is just someone – Death Eaters – trying to scare everyone again. We’ve dealt with people like this before. We’ll do it again. They’ll make a mistake – they always do. And then we’ll have them.”

Draco watched the steely resolve settle in Potter’s face in the wake of his denial, and wasn’t sure whether it was simply wishful thinking, or the truth.

“Well,” Harry said briskly, making for the door. “You’d better get training as soon as possible.” He gestured towards the door, and Malfoy got to his feet, preceding him out of the office as he waved his wand at the wall, returning the case information to its hidden state. “I’ll get one of the Squad to come up and test your Mark against the victims’ later, just to make sure. You can make the time commitment, I hope?”

Draco rolled his eyes as Potter locked his office door. “I wouldn’t have signed if I couldn’t. My businesses can run on minimal involvement from me for as long as necessary.”

“Excellent. Right, well, there’s no time like the present to get started.”

“I do know how to duel, you know, Potter,” Draco drawled.

Harry shrugged, leading the way back through the open plan Auror Offices. “There’s no harm in being put through your paces – it’s probably been a while since you’ve had to do any combative magic.”

“You don’t know what it’s like arguing with my mother then,” Draco muttered.

Harry chuckled.

Draco allowed a smirk. His expression turned to one of confusion as Potter led him out of the Auror Offices and out into the main corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. “Where are we going?”

The curved hallway was filled with various members of Magical Law Enforcement hurrying in every direction, bent on their tasks, probably sent into a flurry by the morning’s murders. Harry let them briskly through the crowd, and Draco kept pace, glancing sideways at him.

A little nervousness had begun to bleed back into Potter’s expression. Draco didn’t like it. “ _Potter…_ ” he said warningly.

“The Auror Training Facility,” Harry interrupted. “There’s no room in our Offices for a proper training field, not with the influx of new Aurors that happened a few years back, despite enlargement charms, so we’re down the corridor.”

Potter glanced at him, and again there was that anxious flicker in his green eyes.

“I should warn you – you do know some of my department.”

Draco rolled his eyes. _Was that what was bothering Potter?_ “Funnily enough, I expected that. What with the fact that we’re the same age, and went to school together, and I’ve worked with you before,” he drawled.

“Yes, but not everyone has accepted that you’ve changed. I am a minority in that regard.”

“I’m touched.”

Harry held in a sigh. “You’re going straight into combat training, Malfoy – and you know your instructor. I just don’t know whether she’ll welcome your presence, is all. You have…history. You better hope for your sake that she’s willing to overlook it. The three of us are going to be working closely together on the case.”

Draco cocked an interested eyebrow. “She?”

Harry frowned and pursed his lips. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he muttered grimly.

Draco smirked to himself. It the instructor was a woman it would be a doddle. He didn’t know what Potter was worrying about. He might have restored respect to his family name, but he wasn’t a hermit. He was fairly sure he had recently been named _Witch Weekly’s_ most eligible bachelor for the third time in a row – a sure sign that he had restored credibility to himself, if not his family name, amongst witches if not wizards. A woman would play easily into his hands, whatever their history together might be. The number of spurned girlfriends he’d had who had come grovelling back to him for more defied count; not that he’d ever accepted their offers. Snivelling was not an attractive personality trait, and nor was begging.

“Here we are.” Harry opened a door and led them through, grinning as he regarded his once-enemy’s astonished face. “You’ll be able to enter here yourself now that you’ve signed the contract. It takes special clearance to get through the door.”

Draco nodded mutely. The room was massive, and blindingly white. Beneath the curved hemispherical ceiling, six arenas had been set up inside massive depressions, the two rows taking up the majority of the cavernous space. The little moving specks of groups of trainee Aurors could be seen in the sunken pits, some being taught concealment and disguise, others duelling, others stealth and tracking. They stood at the top of a massive staircase, overlooking the vast space, the walls sloping down to the recessed arenas. Level with them to left and right the walls were perforated with doors that presumably led to classrooms. A run around the perimeter would be tiring.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry chuckled, leading him down the staircase. “You’ll be starting in the combat arena – it’s kind of the next step up from ordered duelling; it’ll help you anticipate fighting in difficult terrains. It’s supposed to force trainees to think more creatively in difficult situations; the worst thing in a fight is being hampered by an inability to adapt.”

They cleared the staircase and walked along the white plateau between the pits, and Harry veered right at the nearest one, disappearing into a hole near the edge that revealed itself on closer inspection to be the top of a narrow spiral staircase, also white.

Draco followed Potter down, and they stopped together at the bottom.

The true size of the arenas only became apparent once you were inside them, and Draco guessed that it could easily have held a Quidditch pitch. Nearby, however, a group of trainees sat and stood on and around benches, clearly waiting for their instructor to arrive. Some were stretching or practicing their moves, waving their wands and mouthing words, others chatted.

They were all dressed in an extremely strange fashion, both men and women in sleeveless, form-fitting black clothes that looked like they had been painted on, and which were extremely inappropriate by wizarding standards and left absolutely _nothing_ to the imagination. Their singlets, if they could be called that, seemed to follow some sort of colour-coding system that Draco could not divine, as there was no apparent pattern to who wore deep purple, burgundy, white, or dark olive.

 _Must be Muggle clothing,_ Draco mused, _if it can be called clothing._ The men looked plain ridiculous. The women however were quite easy on the eye. He evaluated a few, their figures plainly revealed in the tight gear. Perhaps this training thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“So, who’s this terrifying instructor then?” he asked nonchalantly. “Not McGonagall, I hope.” He smirked.

Harry snorted. “Not quite.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the far end of the arena as the door the office there opened. “That’s her.”

Draco turned his eyes on the figure. At this distance her face was difficult to make out, but she seemed to have a mane of curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he could appreciate her figure as she marched towards them clad all in black with slashes of burgundy across her thighs. Apparently the colour system was linked to discipline. She seemed closer in age to him than her students, and her figure was more womanly, drawing his eye along its curves.

The trainees all leapt to their feet as she approached, shuffling into a line.

Harry glanced at Draco with a nervous expression, and caught the man’s assessing eyes, and the slight smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was thinking. “Just a suggestion, Malfoy – don’t let her know your mind went there.”

Draco glanced at Potter, eyebrows raised.

“She won’t appreciate it.”

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes, and was about to make a comment about how all women appreciated his appreciation, when a very familiar voice interrupted him, striking what could only accurately be described as the fear of god into his heart.

“Harry? What’s Malfoy doing here?”

Draco slowly swivelled towards the woman. She was close enough now for them to recognise each other, and Draco cringed internally at the thoughts that had been running through his head mere seconds before. He cleared his throat. “Granger. How nice to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT A GLIMPSE OF HERMIONE! A GLIMPSE!  
> Don't worry, she's in the next chapter properly.
> 
> So. Whaddya think of Draco's revelation? Is Voldemort back or isn't he? *grins slyly*  
> Again, I hope the case details and speculations weren't too convoluted or anything. I really tried hard to make them not be.
> 
> And yes, the Auror recruits are wearing lycra. And yes, Draco most definitely did check out Hermione before he realised who she was. XDDDD
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	3. Tests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco go wand to wand in a training session in which magical sparks definitely fly, and from which a surprising suggestion arises.

“Harry, I said, what is _he_ doing here?” Hermione asked again, ignoring Malfoy’s salutation. Her tone was short, and her eyes, when they flickered briefly to him, were suspicious and cross.

Draco watched her carefully, prudent enough to keep his expression neutral and very firmly stuffing his previous thoughts about her into a very dark corner of his mind in hopes that they might erase themselves. She had grown, as they all had, although she was still short in comparison to him and Potter. Her face would have had a feminine curve to it as her body did, but her jaw was currently tight with irritation, lips thin and pursed. No matter how much time had passed, Granger was still Granger, and Granger clearly still had a grudge. He could hardly hold it against her. She seemed intent on ignoring him, however, and for the moment he was simply pleased to have breathing space.

“Malfoy’s working on the new case with us, Hermione,” Harry said levelly, flicking his eyes at the recruits who were listening interestedly to the exchange, sensing the tension radiating off the three and well aware of all the gossip interlinking them.

Hermione took the hint, and turned to her class. “Training is dismissed until I call you back.”

The class broke up with a mixture of disappointment and glee, and Harry and Draco exchanged nervous glances, both thinking the same thing. If Hermione didn’t want the class around indefinitely she had to be angry. _Very_ angry. This was all kinds of not good.

It wasn’t until Hermione was sure that the last of the trainees had cleared the top of the spiral staircase that she turned her glare with full force on Harry. “I better have misheard you, Harry.” Her tone could have stopped a blast-ended skrewt in its tracks.

Harry shook his head, willing himself not to cave under her pressure. There were times when his friend genuinely scared him, and he couldn’t help but remember her petrifying Neville in their first year. He swallowed. “Malfoy’s agreed to work with us – he’s already been extremely helpful.” He kept his tone bright yet conciliatory.

Hermione shot a disbelieving glare at Draco, who aimed for a pleasant and encouraging smile. She frowned. “So why is he _here_ here, then? If he’s just a consultant–”

“He’s part of the team; Hermione,” Harry interrupted quickly, “not just consulting. It’s too serious.”

A dangerous spark danced in Hermione’s eyes at that. Harry and Draco gulped.

“Why wasn’t I asked about this, Harry? I’m on the case too – I’m practically heading it with you. Doesn’t my opinion matter?”

“Of course it matters, Hermione; you know it does,” Harry soothed.

“Then why wasn’t I conferred with, or even _informed_ of your decision?” she exclaimed, ignoring his attempt to appease her.

Draco understood what she was getting at. It was the fact that she hadn’t even been consulted on the decision that was getting to her more than anything else – besides the fact that she probably still hated his guts. He had to admit, if their roles had been reversed, he would have been pretty peeved not to be kept in the loop too. For the moment he was happy to let Potter deal with his infuriated friend, however. He was quite sure that Granger would have more than enough ire stored to unleash on him later, and he had no intention of accelerating her progression towards him.

Harry was losing his patience for the topic. The morning had been stressful enough already, and looked only to get more so as the day progressed. “Well I’m informing you _now_. Hang it all, Hermione – the case was only just turned over to us this morning! I can’t give you second by second updates!”

Hermione’s frown deepened at the change in her friend’s attitude, and her hands went to her hips. “I wasn’t asking for _second by second_ updates, Harry!” she cried, her voice increasing in decibels to match his. “I was asking to be kept informed of important updates to an extremely important case that I’m involved in! Not being filled in after the fact! That’s pretty standard procedure! Especially when you’re making decisions about bringing in ex-Death Eater gits that I’d rather curse than collaborate with!”

Draco winced slightly at that, but conceded that she was quite within her rights to speak so, and really considered himself to have gotten off lightly.

“Well I’m _sorry_!” Harry bellowed back. “There just wasn’t enough time, OK?! Do you know how many memos and owls I’ve had since I woke up?! I’ve been working since five a.m.! There just hasn’t been time to keep everyone informed!”

“I’m not _everyone_ , Harry. I am asking you for the bare minimum,” Hermione replied sharply.

“Well this morning the bare minimum is just a bit much, OK?!”

They both stood, glaring at one another, faces red with their anger and exertion.

“Fine.” Hermione’s tone was worryingly calm all of a sudden. She turned to Malfoy, eyeing him up and down, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her face tight and irritable.

Draco aimed for a mollifying expression, knowing that if he looked in the slightest bit standoffish or flippant she would eviscerate him all the faster. He’d learned his lesson in third year never to under-estimate this particular witch.

“What makes you think I should trust you?” she asked, addressing him directly for the first time.

“Well…Potter trusts me?” Draco ventured. Even he had to admit it was a pathetic answer, but he was certain that Granger was more likely to believe him if he said the sky was green than that he had reformed himself since school. Granger certainly seemed to think his answer ridiculous if her raised eyebrow was anything to go by. She snorted, rolling her eyes as though Potter’s trust had little credibility.

Draco knew it was meant as an insult to him as much as Potter, but even so he had to restrain a snicker. He’d never admit it out loud, but now that he was here, face to face with the bristling termagant, he actually missed riling her up and seeing her reaction. A wistful sense of nostalgia curled in him at the look on her face. He had seen her angry many times during their school career, enjoying needling her, but this was quite different. She was a fully-fledged witch now, and the fact that she was in charge of Auror combat training didn’t bode well for him if he pushed her too far. Things had changed; boundaries were in different places, and he’d have to get to know her a bit better before he tried pushing her buttons for his own amusement – _if_ he dared to. He snuck a glance at her. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her eyes bright, and even in her ponytail her voluminous hair seemed to bristle and crackle with energy. He very much dared to. It was a deliciously dangerous prospect.

“He signed a contract, Hermione,” Harry interjected – very unwisely, in Draco’s opinion. “He’s trustworthy.”

Hermione’s expression cleared for a moment, surprise flitting across her features, but then irritation clouded them once more.

Draco’s brows contracted. “What’s the significance of that, Potter?” He didn’t like the slight smirk that was playing around the corner of Granger’s mouth as her eyes met the Auror’s.

“If you hadn’t been trustworthy – or if you still had affiliations with Death Eaters, upon signing the contract you would have been cursed,” Harry answered casually.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, and he frowned. “A little detail you conveniently left out,” he growled.

Harry shrugged. “Everyone has to go through the test without knowing. Besides, you obviously had nothing to fear.”

Draco gave him an unimpressed look. “And just what would have happened to me if I hadn’t passed it?”

Hermione actually let out a snigger at that. She had progressed a bit beyond her fifth year accomplishment of acne notices across a traitor’s forehead. “Without the correct counter-curse you wouldn’t sire a Malfoy heir,” she answered coolly. “Even Death Eaters have that weakness.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

“Hermione invented it,” Harry supplied. “She was reading about eunuchs in the Imperial Chinese court at the time.”

“Thanks, Potter, that makes me feel so much better,” Draco snapped, paling at the thought. He eyed Granger with a frown. “Your mind is a dangerous thing, Granger.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her previous levity dispelled again. She pulled her wand out of a slim black holster strapped around her thigh, swishing it in a business-like fashion that put Draco on edge. “Let’s get started then.”

“So you trust him, Hermione?” Harry clarified anxiously.

Hermione gave Draco an assessing look that made him feel uncomfortably transparent, raking him up and down as she twirled her wand and marched off to the slightly raised open ground of the arena. “We’ll see.”

Draco gulped. “Don’t leave, Potter,” he muttered.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Harry asked with a hint of a laugh, tactful enough to keep his tone soft so Hermione wouldn’t hear.

Draco gazed uneasily at Granger who was moving further into the open space of the arena, swinging her arms and limbering up for what was to come. “Terrified,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t trust her not to hex me into the next continent if you leave us alone. I’m no fool.”

Harry grinned. “Very wise.”

“Come on, Malfoy; I haven’t got all day. Some of us actually have to work for a living.”

Draco forced down the snarl and comment begging to be released to correct her assumption. It would not do to further infuriate the woman. Instead, he warily took up a position opposite Granger, his wand raised.

There was the briefest of pauses, then Hermione brandished her wand. A vast wall of fire blasted forth from the tip, roaring towards Malfoy, crisping the air before it.

She was determined to break him – no one could pretend they were reformed indefinitely in a fight, and no matter how long it took, she would hammer the truth out of him. Eventually he would resort to Dark magic, and she would be ready for him when he did. Although it was extremely unlikely, it _was_ possible for a powerful witch or wizard to fool the charm on the contract. Whether _Malfoy_ was that powerful remained to be seen, however.

Draco had barely a second of surprise at the brutality of her attack before he quickly conjured a wall of water. The fire roared against it, the elements doing battle, great clouds of steam billowing up to fog the battleground.

Hermione cancelled her spell and vanished the fog with a slash, glancing at Malfoy for a second before hitting him with an impediment jinx to the chest.

Draco was knocked backwards, the force of Granger’s spell much greater than any he’d ever experienced, the wind driven out of him as though he’d used his chest to stop a bludger. His ribcage felt as though she’d crushed it, but he knew he’d be in excruciating pain if she had, and he forced himself upright as he staggered, holding back a string of obscenities, and fired off a stunning spell.

Hermione dodged, whipping a tripping jinx under Malfoy’s ankles and following it with a quick stinging hex to his wand hand, a tiny bead of satisfaction bubbling into her at his snarl.

Draco threw up a shield charm before he alleviated the stinging hex with the appropriate counter jinx, glad that he had taken time to protect himself when red and purple flashes of light exploded against and glanced off the silvery shield.

Seeing his shield, Hermione directed her wand at the ground, drawing a fault line towards Malfoy where he lay, recovering and struggling to his feet. A rumbling of shifting rocks sounded, followed by a great tremor that nearly threw them off their feet, and an enormous fissure opened up along the route she had indicated, eating up the ground towards Malfoy who had regained his feet.

Draco pointed his wand at the heaving ground, his shout lost in the thunder of breaking rocks.

Hermione frowned as Malfoy shot up into the air, changing spells as he began to fall, and levitating himself to land several feet away on solid ground. _Slippery ferret._

Draco, knowing it would only infuriate her more, but needing a moment of respite to think, directed his wand straight at Granger. “ _Obscuro!_ ” A blindfold appeared over her eyes, wrapping her head, and she clutched at it, screeching her displeasure.

“ _Finite incantatem_!” the blindfold vanished, and Hermione glanced around, her eyes instantly settling on Malfoy a second before a body bind curse left his wand tip. She flung up a shield with milliseconds to spare.

Harry watched the fight progress with an unsettled feeling settling in his stomach. It was clear that Hermione was in no way trying to test Malfoy’s abilities, but rather his patience. Malfoy seemed to have guessed this, but his defensive tactics served only to infuriate Hermione more. He was wise not to go on the offensive in retaliation, but even so, Harry did not envy the situation Draco was in. Hermione’s attacks increased in frequency and strength, and Harry pitied Malfoy as she began to levitate the rocks from the fissure, pelting them at her opponent, his retaliation leaving the boulders floating stationary in mid-air, or exploding into clouds of dust.

Hermione’s hair began to come down from her ponytail, hanging in curls around her face and at the nape of her neck as sweat gathered on her skin. She was determined not to give in until Malfoy either showed his true colours or surrendered. Her wand arm had begun to burn and felt like lead, but she kept it up through sheer fury. She _would_ outlast him.

Draco, still in his suit and robes, was faring worse. He had to constantly blink the sweat out of his eyes, his hair soaked with it and falling across his field of vision. At one point he managed to banish his outer robes, and as they continued their duel he gradually shed his suit blazer and tie, a quick spell rolling his sweat-dampened sleeves up. He could feel bruises developing all over his battered body, and was extremely grateful that Blaise had managed to badger him into playing the occasional game of Quidditch on weekends. Without that occasional exercise he knew he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had. He could see Granger was tiring despite herself, but he knew unless he was extremely lucky he wouldn’t be able to sneak a spell under her guard. He only had his Seeker’s reflexes on his side. She was the professional here, and he’d never really been in a real battle.

Resigned to fighting until one of them dropped, Draco continued.

 

“OK, Hermione – that’s enough. Stop.” Harry had had enough. The duel had gone on for well over half an hour, progressing until both combatants were panting and leaning over, their hands on their knees, the sweat dripping from them and peppering the ground like raindrops.

“No!” Hermione gasped defiantly, shoving herself upright again and attempting to level her wand at Malfoy, fighting her screaming muscles as she staggered backwards. “I don’t trust him!”

Draco lifted his head to glance at her, too tired to even care if she turned him into a ferret. Let her have her way, blast her; the woman was too tenacious.

“ _No_ , Hermione. I said that’s enough. You’ve done what you wanted – accept that Malfoy is on the team.” Harry stood between them now, frowning at his friend for her juvenile behaviour.

“I’m still not satisfied!” Hermione protested, her voice weak despite her best efforts.

Harry sighed, his brow creased. “Well what _would_ satisfy you then?” he asked tersely.

“Nothing.” Hermione answered firmly. “Don’t you remember what he did to us, Harry? Six years. _Six years!_ And then becoming a _Death Eater_ – watching while Bellatrix tortured me?! Saying he’s sorry doesn’t cut it.”

“I do remember, Hermione – but that was when we were kids. And I’m not saying it wasn’t wrong and hurtful, and I’m certainly not trying to belittle it,” he added quickly, seeing indignant anger flood her expression, “but people make mistakes. Big mistakes. And you know as well as I do that he couldn’t have done more than he did when we were taken to the Manor. We were all still kids then. And kids do stupid, awful things. But then they grow up. They change. I’ve seen that he’s sorry in every good thing he’s done since then. He hasn’t said sorry – he’s behaved sorry.”

Hermione shook her head stubbornly. “Some people never change.”

“How can you know that, Hermione?” Harry asked exasperatedly. “You haven’t even given him a chance.”

“I –”

“Look into my mind.”

Harry and Hermione paused at the interruption, both turning to Malfoy. He had finally straightened, and his grey eyes met theirs, tired but resolute and entirely truthful.

Draco sighed deeply. Why was he even doing this? He’d been involved in the case for less than an hour, and he was willingly offering to open his mind to someone, the very last thing he would ever wish to do. _Why?_ He sighed. He already knew the answer. _Voldemort._ If there was even the _slightest_ chance He was back there was no way he would stand aside and let him rise once more. Not again. Not now. Not ever.

“What?” It was Hermione who spoke, her eyes narrowed as though she expected Malfoy to rescind his offer or make a joke of it.

“If you know legilimency, I will let you into my mind.” Draco repeated slowly, meeting Granger’s eyes. “Then you can see for yourself, and judge me as you see fit. I won’t fight your ruling – but it will be the end of it.”

Harry gaped at Draco. “Are you sure, Malfoy? Surely veritaserum–”

“Of course, I’m sure,” Draco snapped. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. And if we used veritaserum Granger would probably say I’d found a way around it. Immunities can be developed.” He frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. _What am I doing?_ He lifted his eyes to Granger’s again. “Well?”

Hermione stared at Malfoy for a few moments, nonplussed, sure she had entered some unrealistic dream world. But no, it was really happening; Malfoy was offering to let her into his mind. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. _Malfoy’s mind... What nightmares might lurk in there?_ She sighed, knowing that in spite of herself, her decision had been made. “Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Sharp.” Then she turned and stalked back to the arena office.

Harry let out a deep breath once Hermione was out of earshot. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I honestly didn’t expect her to react like that.”

Draco rolled his eyes, twisting to stretch a few of the muscles cramping down his arms and back before quickly returning his clothing to its pristine state with a swish of his wand. “I belittled her for six years, Potter. I behaved like she was less than the dirt on my feet. Granted, that was because I loathed you and Weasley, and what else was I to do but make her life hell as well,” he added wryly, then shrugged. “I didn’t expect her to welcome me with open arms. Not to mention…well – you know, what happened at the Manor.” Draco grimaced. Granger’s screams had woken him up many nights since then. It didn’t matter what he did – they just wouldn’t go away. His conscience would not be assuaged.

Harry blinked, surprised at Malfoy’s curt admission as well as his lack of ire. The Draco Malfoy of old would have stormed and cursed and vowed vengeance. But then the Draco Malfoy of old hadn’t been his…friendly acquaintance. _Friend_ was probably pushing the envelope a bit far at this point.

“Well…I’ll be there…just to make sure she doesn’t go overboard,” he replied lamely. “Hermione wears her heart on her sleeve – she feels things deeply, no matter how well she might hide it at times. It can take her a while to forgive.” Then, as an afterthought, “You did really well out there. When she comes to her senses – Hermione will recognise that too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at Potter, but the Auror said nothing, giving him a brief nod instead, and marching back towards the staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all...OMG I AM SO SORRY HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE I UPDATED!!!! Got a bit busy with life, and then distracted...
> 
> So, apologies over. THE CHAPTER. AHAHA! THEY MEET! And explosively! :D  
> And Harry and Draco bonding over mutual fear of Hermione's magical prowess and temper I wanted because I want Hermione to be every bit as powerful and impressive as she was in the books, only even more so now because she's a fully fledged witch. And it's pretty funny XD.
> 
> I hope Hermione's anger about and with Draco (and Harry not consulting her) doesn't come across as overdone. I feel like of the three from the Golden Trio, she's really suffered the worst from the Malfoys as a family, what with Bellatrix's torture. So I really didn't want her to be at all pleased about Draco's appearance, especially without her being forewarned.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, thanks for waiting and I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> The next chapter is a particular favourite of mine (yay for world building and legilimency!)
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	4. Commingle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco takes a leap of faith to prove his trustworthiness, and both he and Hermione get more than they bargained for.

Hermione fumed all through the training session when she recalled her recruits, all the way through her shower, and back to her departmental office. There she had glared at the stacks of paperwork waiting for her on her desk, before setting to work with a vengeance.

How Harry could even _think_ Malfoy would make a decent partner on the case, let alone sign him on without consulting anyone else, she did not understand. And they _would_ have to work closely together. She and Harry were in charge of the case, but Malfoy wasn’t just an Auror they could draft in for a bit of delegated work, and then draft out afterwards. He wasn’t with the Ministry, and he would have to be with them every step of the way, if only so an eye could be kept on him. _Babysitting Malfoy._

She frowned, ferociously dotting i’s and crossing t’s on a report she was finishing on the pure-blood hate groups for the Minister. Malfoy was rude, arrogant, abrasive, cowardly, evil, and definitely not helpful. He was clever though – a clever actor. And an even better liar. He had to be if Harry could blind himself to their past, and forget all that had happened between them – the snide insults, the constant doing down, the put downs that always struck at her strongest insecurities. _Six years_ of being told she was less than the most menial grub to inhabit the earth. _Six years_ of being reminded that there was a whole class of wizarding society that considered her some kind of depraved mutation to be stamped out, less than human, unworthy of her magic or a magical education or even a place in the magical world. _Six years_ of his smirks and self-importance and _arrogance_ shadowing her footsteps in the corridors of the castle she was awed to be in. Six years of blight on her school life. And then the torture… Such things could not be so easily forgotten and let go.

That night remained, etched into her psyche, the sensations graven in her muscle memory so that particular movements could threaten to drag the incident to the forefront of her mind, unchecked, so that she was forced to relive the agony and helpless despair. It still haunted her on nights when she was overtired and the past came back to swamp her, and she knew that it hadn’t been kindness behind Malfoy’s actions then – it had been cowardice. The man was a cockroach. And now they had to work together. Welcome to Hell.

Hermione muffled a shriek of frustration, plunging face first into a pillow transfigured from her blotter, and screaming into it until she felt better. Of course, her throat now hurt, and that only made her more irritable, but her desire to punch something had lessened.

It wasn’t even that she didn’t trust Malfoy – although she didn’t, but that was only on the surface. Deep down, all the things he’d done to her still hurt, what his aunt had done to her still hurt, and she didn’t know whether she had it in her to ever forgive him. Most of the time in school she had managed to shrug off his insults, but that didn’t mean the bullying hadn’t and didn’t upset her. She knew she was being emotional and maybe somewhat unreasonable, but it wasn’t possible to be completely logical about this. It was too hard a task, and while forgiving him might bring her some slight reprieve from the pain those memories still caused her, she wasn’t sure she could be logical and detached enough to do it. She wanted to be able to hate him, to blame him, and she knew she was being unfair, but she couldn’t bring herself not to be.

She knew that if Ron was there he would have sided with her – he would have told Harry he was insane, that Malfoy was _Malfoy_ and couldn’t be trusted. Ron didn’t find it quite so easy to forgive. But he was on paternity leave as his wife, Ernie Macmillan’s younger sister Isobel, had recently had their twin boys Gideon and Fabien. Hermione briefly contemplated sending a letter to Ron, but scrapped the idea irately; it wasn’t fair on Ron – or Isobel and the twins for that matter – and she had no doubt that Harry would have her head for disclosing details regarding the case to anyone unauthorised to know. And Ron would want to know all the details. _Perfect, the only person she could talk to was siding with her tormentor!_

She slammed out of the Ministry early for once, going home to stew and brood over what would happen tomorrow.

 

By dinnertime she was almost calm, just a little tetchy. She’d huffed about the kitchen as she crashed the frying pan on and off the hob, Crookshanks gobbling up the flakes of fried fish that flopped out onto the floor, the tension slowly easing out of her as she made her meal, although not before she had diced her vegetables with vicious thoroughness.

After eating and a very long bath, she poured herself half a glass of a rather nice sweet muscato, upending the bottle when only a little remained. She was in her comfy pyjamas – fuzzy flannels that were soft with wear – and she curled up in her favourite winged armchair beside the fire in the lounge with the wine in one hand, and the papers she had stuffed into her bag at work in the other. Crookshanks had gone out to patrol the street as self-appointed night watchman as he did every night before bed.

Now that she had time and was in the right frame of mind she would be able to go through it all. Harry had sent her a note with the updated case file at lunchtime, apparently not daring to talk to her about their new partner face to face for fear she might explode once more. The mountain of work she still had to finish, and the delegation of her own duties that she’d had to sort out had prevented her from reading it, and her own irritation with her friend hadn’t been much of an incentive to open the folder before she calmed down. As a result, she wasn’t completely up-to-date with things at Harry’s end, and that bugged her.

The folder was already an inch thick, and she’d pulled the case files on the Bloodless Seven to reacquaint herself with the details, which left her with a whole foot of extra reading. She’d only been given the absolute bare bones of the case when Kingsley had requested that she joined Harry heading it that morning, and then she had been inundated with pressing matters from her own area of the department. She had glimpsed the bodies around eight that morning when the Squad were still photographing the crime scene. She had given them and the area a cursory examination, shocked by the viciousness of the attack and the sheer amount of blood _everywhere_ before she’d been forced to Apparate back to the Ministry. Even so, she’d missed Harry, who by all accounts had been pulled every which way since the wee hours, and had been itching to pick his brains over exactly who might have done it before the Malfoy debacle.

She dropped the leather briefcase on the floor beside her armchair, wincing slightly as a distant series of thuds indicated at least one stack of the books she had in there had toppled over, and reached in to pull out the case file, propping it up against her knees and staring at the as yet unlabelled manila folder.

 _Let them be Death Eaters killed by normal means, please let them be that,_ she prayed silently to herself. It would mean they had a vigilante seeking justice against the Death Eaters on their hands, but that they had dealt with before, and would cause less fear amongst the general population. The papers lapped up those stories, although the spin they put on it was invariably unhelpful, usually promoting the behaviour, which was the very last thing the Ministry needed. If that was the case however, once they knew the general public were safe, they could focus on the much easier task of tracking the murderer and protecting reformed Death Eaters. Those still on the run could fend for themselves.

Hermione sighed, crossing her fingers slightly under the folder as she chewed on the inside of her lip. She knew Harry had dealt with several rogue Death Eaters during his time in office, but Death Eaters were Death Eaters, and more than once she knew Harry had had the unenviable task of having to return to an Auror’s home to tell their family that their loved one wouldn’t be coming back. With any luck that wouldn’t happen this time.

Apprehension getting the better of her despite the wine, she set the folder aside on a round side table under the floor lamp behind her, and instead hefted the larger bundle out of her bag and onto her lap, flipping open the folder to skim back through the details of the Bloodless Seven. She already knew the case fairly well, but there was a possibility of a similarity striking her.

The investigations had turned up next to no information, a great deal of time having been wasted by her old department chasing up non-existent leads on vampires and sasabonsams, and Blood-Sucking Bugbears – even Pogrebins. The fool in charge of the investigation (one Samuel Blundle, a neurotic from the Being Division whom Hermione knew to hold deep prejudices against any part-human species) had believed the seven exsanguinated corpses to be the work of a rogue coven. Still called upon for consulting matters in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she’d had a little more insight into the case than others exterior to the department, and the insider knowledge hadn’t comforted her. Not even the hungriest of vampires could drain every last drop from a formerly living human. Such wholesale removal of bodily fluids was beyond any blood-feeding creature. They hadn’t been anything near mummification, but she’d brought in Bill Weasley just to check on the off chance that they had undergone an early stage of the process. The idea that ancient Egyptian tomb curses might have been used was unsettling, but Bill had reported that despite any similarities, there was nothing in common with the practices of the Ancient Egyptian wizards.

Blundle, of course, had ignored her report, cutting her out of the case as much as possible after she’d brought in Bill. Instead the fool had gone as far as pulling Sanguini into his investigations, disrupting the vampire’s tour of the British Isles much to the disappointment of his fans, convinced that they were dealing with illegal immigrants from the Black Forest. Blundle had severely dented human-vampire relations, offending almost every coven and individual within the United Kingdom, until the whole mortifying circus was put to a stop by the murders halting after the seventh victim. It was embarrassing how poorly it had been handled. The whole seven weeks had been an absolute nightmare, which the papers had capitalised on, of course. It had been a relief not to be officially working the case, as her name had been kept out of any pot-stirring that had gone on.

Hermione felt her irritation with Blundle rise once more as she flipped through the files, recalling a number of near-misses when the fool had only been saved from a receiving particularly nasty hexes from her by her own professionalism. It had taken a whole month for things to properly calm down, leading articles turning back to stories filled with the latest gossip about the who’s who of the wizarding world, and now it was gearing up again. The press loved it when cold cases resurrected themselves. Hermione sighed, running her hands through her hair and dropping her head back against the chair, hoping against hope they’d be able to solve the case before the media really got their teeth into it. The fact that she and Harry were heading it together had already hit the evening edition of the _Prophet_ , complete with rumours and fear-mongering. It was just as well Ron was on leave. If he’d joined in on it the entirety of wizarding Britain would have been in uproar.

 With the DRCMC put to one side in their favour due to the Marks (something Hermione had been arguing with her superior in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for ever since the first murder took place), Blundle, of course, had come to her office that morning. Convinced she was behind the change of department, he had given her the adult form of a tantrum, which would have put any toddler to shame. Hermione sighed, rubbing her ear slightly, sure he’d been on the verge of busting her eardrums. It hadn’t helped her mood for when Harry had brought Malfoy to see her afterwards she thought wryly.

Blundle was an incompetent nincompoop. The DRCMC weren’t equipped to deal with potential Death Eaters, despite Blundle’s accusations that this time werewolves were involved, and that he could see that if they didn’t attend to it soon the Ministry would have an uprising of murderous magical creatures on their hands. The likelihood of it being werewolves this time had the same probability of Blundle being promoted to Minister. Dark wizards were the bread and butter of the Auror Office. It was obvious that the case be turned over. Blundle, however, was completely in the dark about the presence of the Dark Marks on the victims, by design, which had made him doubly difficult to handle. She had been itching to give the fool a talking to, and had she still been in the department, would have seen to it that he was replaced, but Kingsley had interrupted Blundle’s tirade in her office, intervening before she could retaliate, and Blundle was now working in Magical Maintenance. Kingsley had calmly stated that he felt Blundle’s considerable talents would be far better utilised in that department. Hermione had had to restrain herself from punching the air, although Kingsley had allowed her a small wink on his way out of her office afterwards.

Hermione banished the stack of files back to her office bag with a sigh. She hadn’t expected any miracle of inspiration to strike from reviewing the old cases, but she would be lying if she said she hadn’t hoped _something_ might crop up. And she’d be lying even more if she said she wasn’t putting off looking at the grisly photos of the case in hand once more.

“You’re Hermione Granger, woman,” she muttered sternly to herself. “Act like it!”

Rallying herself, she pulled out the folder Harry had sent her once more. She frowned, and then opened it, only to come face to face with a note in Harry’s usual spikey scrawl.

 

_Hermione,_

_I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you about Malfoy before signing him on. I understand how you feel – trust me, I do. But you also know how it’s been for me this morning. If I could have talked to you first, I would have. But I do trust Malfoy – I wouldn’t have involved him at all if I did not have the utmost confidence in his trustworthiness._

_I know this will be difficult for you. I know you of all of us have suffered most from his family. And I would not have put you in this position if I had any other choice. But things are moving faster than we thought – this case is more involved than we assumed._

 

Hermione huffed a little to herself, sipping her wine, but grouchily accepted Harry’s written apology. She knew he hadn’t cut her out of the decision on purpose. Intrigued by the note, she read on.

 

_Malfoy checked the Marks. They’re real. The Squad tested them against his this afternoon. But they’re new. I didn’t notice before, but Malfoy did. They’re black – the way they went when Voldemort summoned the Death Eaters. Malfoy’s turned grey after Voldemort died._

Hermione froze, staring at the untidy writing, so much like her friend’s hair, before she collected herself, reading through the rest of his note as fast as possible, noticing that his handwriting had become even messier as it went on, splatters of ink dotting the page as though he had pressed the quill so hard he’d snapped the tip.

 

_We don’t know what this means yet. It’s got both of us stumped – I’ve never seen Malfoy so agitated. He said he’d only ever seen Voldemort cast Marks. He didn’t even think it was possible for anyone else to. Voldemort still used his yew wand when he branded Malfoy, so we’re not likely to find out much from determining the wand that branded the victims, but I have the Squad working on it anyway._

_Hermione… I honestly don’t believe Voldemort’s back. I’d know it. I don’t know how, but I just do. This has to be someone else. We’ve got to find out who. Malfoy thinks they’ve re-formed the Death Eaters, whoever they are. But he hasn’t heard any chatter that might hint at that so he’s even more confused than I am._

_It still doesn’t answer why our guys were murdered, but it’s somewhere to start. Also, Malfoy seems to think that whether the Marks were branded on them before or after their death was important. Like they’re a hoax to put us off._

_We discussed the likelihood of a new Dark witch or wizard coming forwards in an attempt to take Voldemort’s place after we left you. Malfoy seems to be in favour of the idea. He says it takes power to cast the Mark, and they might use it as a smokescreen for their real activity. If we went haring off thinking it was Voldemort it would be a perfect cover._

_Please do think properly about working with him. He’s told us more than we’d be able to figure out ourselves already._

_Harry_

 

Hermione sighed. She was still reeling slightly from the revelation Harry had disclosed about the Marks, processing it, but Harry’s last plea set her emotions rolling again. She had to admit, grudgingly, that without Malfoy’s input they would be much further behind than they already were.

She hummed, resting her mouth against the rim of her wine glass as she thought.

_Malfoy._

Another flick of her wand brought a third file soaring towards her, and when it opened in her lap she was provided with a copy of the Ministry’s most up to date information on the Malfoy heir. She stared at the photograph of him – a clipping from the paper. He looked serious, tired; a businessman. She scanned through the file, examining the details of his generous donations to various charities and causes, the fact that his businesses had entirely clean dealings, and the number of times he had covertly tipped off the Ministry about underground Dark activity.

The more she read the less anger she felt towards the boy. Well, man, really. They were adults now, and with a twinge of embarrassment she realised she really had not behaved like one earlier in the day. Malfoy had been the mature one. She had behaved like a thwarted child – exactly as she had expected, and, if she admitted it, _wanted_ , to see him behave. She’d behaved like _Blundle_ , Merlin help her. She had wanted him to justify her perceptions of him, to validate her anger and distrust. To continue to hate the boy he had been. But no, he had been collected, reserved (but then he _was_ a Malfoy), courteous even. The man she had met – the man he was – was different to the boy she remembered. And she felt ashamed of herself.

 _But I have to be sure._ We _have to be sure._

And what was she going to find in his mind tomorrow?

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. The angry part of her that thirsted for retribution and justice for the blight he had been on her years at Hogwarts wanted to see he was involved in the murders, to see he still was a Dark wizard, and not to be trusted in the slightest. But the logical woman she had grown to be told her she was being juvenile and unfair. Her lack of control that morning might have been excused by her altercation with Blundle, but after a night’s sleep and a day of calm consideration, any baseless ire on her part tomorrow would simply be unprofessional. More to the point; it wouldn’t be right. And doing the right thing was what her career, and at times her entire life, had been founded on.

All of a sudden she didn’t know what she wanted to see into his mind. If he proved to be a good person, that would mean she had to swallow her pride and admit she had been wrong – that she had treated him poorly that morning. Worse still, that she had completely misjudged him based on behaviour that was well in the past. It was one thing admitting such things to herself at home, but to formally apologise to _him_ stuck in her craw.

Hermione rolled the cool glass against her cheek, trying to take away the flush the wine had brought to her skin. Even if he were proven to have changed, how could she so easily forgive the wounds of the past?

Her arm twinged slightly, and she glanced down to her forearm where the silver-white scars still wrote out ‘Mudblood’ in her skin. No magic could vanish them. The internal scars from the Cruciatus Curses Bellatrix had used on her couldn’t be seen, but phantom pains still wracked her body some nights as though lightning had been trapped in her veins. They always woke her with tears in her eyes, her body constricted with an echo of the curses that refused to go away, ribs burning with the relived heat of Dolohov’s curse. Those scars still traced her torso.

 _And he did nothing. The coward._ _He just stood by_. She paused halfway through the venomous thought. _But then, he really_ did _do nothing – nothing to help them, but nothing to harm them either. He_ could _have identified Harry…he tried not to identify us. And if he_ is _good – what then? Apologise for your prejudice? Acknowledge your myopia?_

Hermione’s heart tightened a little as though a pair of hands inside it had suddenly gripped the tiny box her forgiveness was locked away in with alarming strength at the thought. _Could_ she forgive him? Was such a thing even possible?

She heard the creak and _floop_ of the cat flap as Crookshanks padded back in, coming over to rub his face against her ankles with a rumbling purr, his fur cold from the night air, before he ran away upstairs to curl up on the empty side of her double bed. Hermione stared after her pet.

Crookshanks had the right idea. Sighing with the muddled complication of her thoughts, Hermione drained her glass, and went up to bed, hoping that tomorrow would hold answers, although what she hoped to find, she did not yet know.

 

*

 

The next day, Draco found himself facing Potter over a table in one of the Auror interrogation rooms, waiting on Granger. The previous day had been taken up with the logistics of signing him on, which involved a degree of paperwork, and then familiarising himself with Ministry regulations, all fitted around Potter’s usual work. After going down to the Forensics lab to crosscheck his Mark with those on the corpses, confirming their worst suspicions, they had agreed to meet early the next day. Draco had intended to use the extra time to regulate his emotions, but he could feel the nerves pounding with adrenaline in his chest. _I’m insane. I am actually, certifiably, insane._

He hadn’t told either of his parents what had happened in his meeting when he had collected them in the afternoon, and they hadn’t pried. His mother had been occupied with trying to hound her husband out of his depressive funk, insisting that he went to the classes with an open mind. Draco could tell she was thinking about his not idle remarks from the morning about how easily Lucius could return to Azkaban, and genuinely concerned that her husband might get himself sent back there due to no more than obstinate mulishness. Apparently, he had spent most of the day glaring at the instructor, and had refused to answer any question put to him. Naturally, this had left him in a foul mood, little improved by his wife’s badgering, and he had stormed off into the Manor the moment they cleared the Floo. Narcissa had had the presence of mind to vaguely enquire after Draco’s meeting, but he had shrugged it off as he so often did, before flooing to his apartment to leave his parents to their domestic squabble.

Potter was trying for an encouraging smile that Draco found entirely unnecessary, and more irritating than anything else. He didn’t require any emotional support, and even if he did, he wouldn’t turn to Potter for it. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and trying to calm his mind. It wouldn’t do to let Granger in when his thoughts were as scrambled and incoherent as they were at the moment. He envisaged millponds and icebergs, slowly restoring order.

The door opened and Granger marched in. She took the seat opposite Draco, frowning, her arms crossed. It didn’t bode well.

Draco blinked, lifted out of his anxiety and meditations for a moment by the realisation that when she wasn’t wearing that ridiculous Muggle getup from yesterday, Granger was actually a very smart dresser. Her insane hair had been restrained in the kind of French twist his mother favoured, if a little looser, and her tight black skirt stopped at her calves and rose up to her waist, cinching in the loose white satin blouse she wore beneath her open fronted black and grey herringbone robes. Simple but stylish. He’d always thought she was a rather dowdy dresser in school, with the exception of the Yule Ball. That was probably the first time any of the male population of the school had actually realised she was a girl, and a not unattractive one at that.

She met his enquiring gaze with an eyebrow raised in unimpressed bemusement, and Draco looked away.

“Right,” Harry cleared his throat uneasily. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Draco muttered, his mind back on the task in hand.

Hermione nodded. Then she turned to Draco. “Let down your barriers, Malfoy.”

Draco stared into her brown eyes. They were intense, but he dared to think there was a little less anger in them than yesterday. With a sigh at his own foolishness, he closed his eyes, and lowered his mental barricades.

Granger did not speak the incantation, but he could feel her presence instantly. Her mind was a foreign fluidity that pressed against his own, feeling out his lowered walls, before slipping over them like water spilling over the edge of an over-filled cup. Draco struggled to keep the barriers down as he felt her glide over them, every instinct screaming at him to slam them back up, but he resisted the urge. Granger locked out was bad enough, but Granger locked in didn’t bear thinking about.

She ghosted over his mind, sliding between his uppermost thoughts and deeper towards his memories like quicksilver. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. When he’d practiced occlumency with his insane aunt, Bellatrix’s touch had been invasive and barbed, the threat of her intrusion a severe inducement to succeed and shut her out. Granger, although she did not seem to be taking extreme care, seemed able to easily wind her way between his thoughts, her presence less invasive and more subtle, her mind smooth against his, brushing against the bubbles of his thoughts and sending off little shockwaves of their contents. His concerns about his father’s obstinate behaviour rose up before his eyes as she skimmed the thought; his nervousness before he’d gone to meet Lucius for the first time after his release eclipsed by the arrival of Potter’s letter requesting a meeting; his shock seeing the Dark Marks; his anxieties about the rise of the Dark Lord or a new Dark witch or wizard. Granger brushed them aside lightly as one might gently fend off a puppy when busy, curious but uninterested in them, and moved deeper.

Draco struggled with himself for a moment as she cleared his immediate thoughts and came to the edge of his memories, his barriers trembling as he fought to keep them down, fear and anxiety willing him to return them to their proper place and keep his mind safe. It was his last haven – his only bastion. But he had agreed to this, he had suggested it, and he had to let her into the place no other had ever been.

He could feel Granger waiting; watching and feeling his struggle with a patience he hadn’t expected of her, until eventually his will won out.

Hermione drifted towards the edge of Malfoy’s memories, hesitant now she was here, reluctant to discover what truly lay in the depths of his mind. His thoughts were relatively predictable, although she couldn’t help but be a little surprised by the lack of any negative ruminations on her, especially given her behaviour the previous day. She had expected to come across at least one offensive slur, but there had been nothing. His memories, however, and beyond that – his deepest convictions – they gave her pause for thought. There were things there that they shared – memories she had little desire to see again from a different perspective than her own – and convictions that she couldn’t help but fear.

There was no doubt that Malfoy was not enjoying the ordeal. Immersed within him as she was, she could feel the struggle that he was undergoing every second that she was present, and experienced a faint echo of the battle he was fighting with his instincts. His instinct for survival and self-preservation was strong, strong enough that she could understand why he had been a coward in the past. He feared death; he feared emotions and their effects; he feared vulnerability. Little wonder that the desire to shut her out was so overwhelming. It was impressive that he had managed to bring down his walls, let alone keep them down long enough for her to get as far as she had, and she knew her dawdling was not helping matters.

A streak of fear chased its way through her at the thought of being trapped in Malfoy’s mind if he accidentally put his shields back up before she could get out. She shook the thought off, however. She was a professional. She was here to prove Malfoy couldn’t be trusted; she had a job to do.

With a mental huff of forced bravery, she moved forwards into his memories, dropping down towards them. She didn’t need to look at anything from their school years or before, but it was difficult to stay out of them entirely as she sifted through his recollections of the past six years. Memories were always tied together like a daisy chain of interlinked bubbles, and once she started investigating one, she would be pulled quickly down through the rest.

Harry watched Malfoy and Hermione’s faces. Hermione’s was quite calm, her breathing even and meditative, although a small frown of concentration drew her brows together and her lips were slightly pursed. Malfoy was quite different. His teeth were clenched, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and he was panting shallowly. Sweat had begun to gather at his temples and above his lip. Harry had no doubt that Malfoy was more than capable of throwing Hermione out of his mind if she crossed the line, and he knew from his own experiences with Snape that what was happening was far from pleasant for Malfoy, but he could not help but remain on the edge of his seat, straining to notice the slightest sign that he might need to intervene. He trusted Hermione not to be callous – to be aware of the immense trust Malfoy was placing in her by allowing her into his mind – but even the gentlest of invasions remained an incursion into that which should never be assaulted.

Draco fought to remain calm as his memories flashed past his eyes, no control over what he saw or where Granger went, the entirety of his will bent on keeping his mind open to her. There was his father’s trial at which he had been a reluctant attendee, his mother’s trial – Potter testifying in the witness stand, being shunned by people in the street and at school or else hissed and jeered at, receiving curses in letters, the day he returned home after finishing school and his alienation with the Manor and its echoing corridors. Going to the drawing room Granger had been tortured in and barely being able to cross the threshold – the echoes of her screams seeming to follow him from it. Moving out to his own London apartment, the simple pleasure of having a place that belonged to him and him alone – a fresh place that he could make his own. Months and months of him bent over his desk sifting through papers as he established his businesses, the setbacks and failures he’d gone through getting them up, the glow of success when he’d finally managed to get them on their feet. The sleepless nights he’d endured since the end of the War – the nightmares that plagued him, waking up covered in cold sweat and still panting with fear for his life, or else with her screams still ringing in his ears. Drowning in Firewhiskey before bed, his mother lecturing him on his drinking, the relived burning of his arm, the pain arcing out from where the Dark Lord had pressed his wand to bounce around inside his entire body while he yelled himself hoarse.

Draco wanted to wrench Granger away from those memories, to expel her from his mind with the force of a hurricane; she didn’t need to know the weakness he felt at night. It was personal. But she had already drifted away from them of her own accord.

They glided together to other memories. Weekend Quidditch games with Blaise and Nott – the pleasant discovery that they really could be friends, meetings with Potter and the other Aurors, taking his mother to her re-education classes and listening to her gush about the weird Muggle objects or customs she’d learnt about afterwards. Being dragged to the Muggle opera and theatre by her, nights spent reading or out with Blaise cruising for women. Following the case of the Bloodless Seven, reading the news of the latest murders and deciding to check the Manor’s wards. His father’s return from Azkaban. And then older memories from his childhood; days spent alone in the echoing Manor playing with his toys, peering around doors and watching his parents meeting men and women he now knew to be Death Eaters. Growing older and being schooled on the proper way to behave as a Malfoy, his father’s cold gaze and the heavy weight of his expectations. Reprimands from his father for playing with the house-elves. Beginning to shoulder the unwelcome mantle of expectations that was his family name, cultivating his impassive mask and his father’s sneer. The intense relief of being able to refashion the Malfoy name after the War. Seeing her across the room laughing with Potter and Weasley at social events, all the resurfaced memories from their schooling and the sincere regret for his insufferable behaviour.

Draco could sense they were on the edge of something dangerous, the memories Granger was sieving through starting to peter out. As the last few flickering images faded, it became clear what they were nearing. His feelings and deepest convictions. His resolve faltered for a moment as she drifted closer to them, anxiety and fear rushing up through him, and his barriers resurrected themselves with a thud.

The restoration of Malfoy’s barriers cannoned into Hermione like a shockwave, thrusting her forwards into the deepest recess of his mind and cutting her loose from her own like skydiver gone into freefall without a parachute. She had already sensed his convictions floating above them, sifting through the mist of echoes that rose up from that part of him, and despite all her expectations, she recognised that Malfoy truly was trustworthy. His past was consumed with bitterness and jealousy, anger, and a self-righteous belief in his own superiority, but he seemed to have sloughed that off in exchange for a new cloak of feelings that felt more wholesome, cleaner – happier. He’d started to become his own man – separated from his family name, his father, and the expectations that went with them both. He truly no longer cared for the blood prejudices he had been raised with. It had humbled her, and she had been about to ascend and exit his mind when his barriers had shut her in.

Her closed lids were inundated with waves of roiling emotion as she spun deeper into his mind, all of her own control lost. Feelings deluged her in tidal waves, unfiltered and powerful enough to take her breath away – his determination to be a better man, his bitterness, his loneliness, the unacknowledged aches from his childhood, jealousy and envy from their school days, the terrifying threat of inadequacy, and an overwhelming sense of shame and disgust at his own past behaviour and his family’s, the gut-wrenching sickened feeling of listening to her screams and being powerless to stop them for fear of his own safety and that of his parents, and the dangers of his aunt and their master.

Draco thrust all that he had into bringing his barriers back down, feeling Granger’s sudden loss of control and the panic flooding into her as she spiralled deeper. With a roar that ripped from his lips, Draco slammed them back down, plunging after Granger to grab her before she fell too far, and Hermione found herself slingshot backwards, up and out into her own mind.

Hermione drew a deep breath, and opened her eyes. She met Draco’s across the table. They were both panting hard, and sweat had gathered on Malfoy’s neck, glistening in the ridges between his veins and rigid muscles. He was gripping the table as though to flip it, but his eyes were locked on hers, no longer as mysterious or impassive as they had once been. He was open to her.

“Are you two OK?”

Harry’s voice seemed to come to the pair from a long way off, echoing as though they stood in a tunnel.

Draco stared into Granger’s eyes. He had never felt so vulnerable. Not even while facing the Dark Lord. He’d still had barriers then. This time, everything that he was had been laid bare, placed in Granger’s hands to do with as she willed. And she had given him back. She had respected the enormity of the act – the leap of faith that it required, the _trust_ which he barely had for himself that he had extended to her – and although she now knew him more intimately than any other person ever would, and understood him as he understood himself, he had no doubt whatsoever that she would not take advantage of what he had just allowed her access to. Yesterday he would not have thought so, but her behaviour today assured him of it. And for that Draco was grateful. Immensely so.

Hermione blinked, breaking the contact and disconnecting herself fully from the swirl of thoughts she could read in Malfoy’s grey eyes. She nodded faintly. “I trust him.” _I forgive him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well apologies about the delay in getting this to you. Dramas and work press-ganged me into inactivity :( But it's here now and I am super excited for you to read it!
> 
> This is my absolute favourite chapter so far! I had huge fun coming up with the legilimency section, and creating new lore around the art. Probably because I love world building haha. I'm super interested to hear your thoughts on what I've come up with, and whether you liked it!  
> Also, this has further reaching consequences than either Hermione or Draco are aware of yet - so keep it in mind in the future! (Hint hint!)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it, and I'm going to try and upload the next chapter before June to make up for not putting this up in April :)
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	5. Dark Deeds, Darker Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione separately come to the same conclusion regarding their Legilimency session, troubles are encountered with the Dark Marks, and the case takes a darker turn.

Harry had insisted that they rested before they returned to his office to continue discussing the case. Both Hermione and Draco had protested profusely, but it was clear from their ashen complexions that neither was fit for much more than sitting down.

It had taken a great deal of careful verbal manoeuvring on his part before Harry managed to convince them to have an early second breakfast at the little vendor type café in the department under the pretence that he himself had missed his own breakfast. The food had done them a power of good, steadying the slight residual tremor in their limbs, and bringing the colour back into their wan cheeks.

Neither Hermione nor Draco met one another’s eyes after they had broken that initial contact. Mind sharing was either a deeply invasive or intimate act, and both could feel that their experience had started on the edge of the former and at some point veered towards the latter. Usually it was deeply unpleasant for both parties involved, especially in cases where it was non-voluntary, but something about their minds had allowed them to flow together with minimum friction. In people who were vastly mentally incompatible it was sometimes impossible for Legilimency occur, even if the practitioner was a professional in the art. Only in the cases where the Legilimens was both talented and intent on extracting the information they sought, regardless of the damage it might do to the invaded individual, could it happen, and that would leave the victim a gibbering excuse of a human, their mind ruined permanently. In voluntary cases however, it was inevitable that a bond of some sort would be created – it was simply too intimate for there not to be, especially for an extended session as theirs had been – and neither of them were quite sure what that was, or how they felt about it.

Truth be told, Draco had not considered the consequences of such an outcome. He hadn’t even contemplated the consequences of letting her into his mind – he hadn’t allowed himself to, knowing that if he thought about the notion seriously for even a moment he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. He hadn’t even known whether Granger knew Legilimency when he had first suggested the idea, and even when she’d agreed, he’d expected her to either shy away or be brutally efficient. A bond of any sort hadn’t seemed likely in the first place, and even if he had given thought to it, he would have expected her resentment to deepen, which wouldn’t have mattered on the proviso that she trusted him. He had never believed half of the stuff bandied about regarding the mental connections involved in mind sharing in any case. Most of the tales about extremely compatible minds were attached to ridiculous stories of true love, and he had been too frustrated the previous day to give it serious consideration before the morning, and too flustered now to want to do anything more than forget the whole experience.

Hermione, however, fully aware of the theory behind all forms of Legilimency, had never expected the outcome they achieved. There was something about the feel of Malfoy’s  mind she hadn’t anticipated. She’d thought he would be prickly, for the contact to jar and the process to be forced, but he’d moved against her like their minds had been oiled, despite his evident discomfort with allowing her in. It had been sinuous.

She’d had to use Legilimency on recalcitrant individuals for cases before – very rarely – and each time the experience had been abrasive and painful, leaving her with incredible headaches that not even potions could cure. This, perhaps because Malfoy had invited it, although not easy, had not hurt. Their minds had gelled, fitting together like very slightly misaligned puzzle pieces – not perfect, but certainly comfortable.

She had been surprised at her own reaction to the fit. Her gentleness was not planned. She had been determined not to worry about how she handled Malfoy and his memories, sure there would be many unsavoury ones about her, and determined not to show that she cared or was weak. She was going to be a professional about it. But somehow all of that had gone out the window the moment she reached out and their minds met. The first touch had been oddly calming, which in and of itself was strange. Even more shocking was the realisation that she’d forgiven him. She had felt his genuine remorse, she knew it to be the absolute truth, and that, it seemed, had been what she had needed to at last let go of her rancour, but idea of it still left her reeling.

Both came to the separate conclusion that the best course of action was to ignore it.

Harry watched them carefully as they ate, and again as they went to his office. He had expected there to be some kind of fallout from the Legilimency, not this weighty silence. He had expected shouting, accusations, fury – he had thought that he would have to convince at least one, if not both, to stay on the case and work together like professional adults, perhaps even to have to confiscate their wands until they calmed down. Sober reflection and introspection had not even crossed his mind as potential outcomes.

He cleared his throat as they milled about in front of his desk. “Ahem. So, the Squad have gotten back to me and said that thus far, they can identify no cause of death, so until further notice we’re assuming it was the Killing Curse.”

Everyone’s hearts dropped a little at the news.

Harry soldiered on. “The fact that their Dark Marks are genuine and fresh would seem to indicate that they are wizards – until such a time as it is proven that Muggles are able to withstand the curse – and that we are dealing with an exceptionally powerful Dark witch or wizard. Why they are branding them is something we _must_ establish.”

Hermione closed her eyes, her expression pained for a brief moment.

“Because the case involves extreme Dark activity, Kingsley will now be informed of updates and our movements. However, we won’t inform the Muggle Prime Minister or put out an international warning until we have firm evidence that this person or persons are a serious threat. If this is confirmed, Kingsley will liaise with the Prime Minister and we will issue an international warning to the other Ministries – especially those nearest – at which point we shall liaise with the Department of Magical Transportation and tighten monitoring on international Floo connections, Apparition, and Portkeys.” Harry turned to Hermione. “As we’re having no luck with our records or the Muggles’, I want you to get in contact with the Bulgarian Ministry and ask them for missing persons lists. The Squad are still running the victims’ DNA, so it’s probably a shot in the dark, but given Durmstrang’s past with Dark wizards, I think it’s the best thing we can do until we have more information, and some of Voldemort’s followers were known to be Bulgarians.

“We know next to nothing about anyone or anything involved in this, so we are keeping our minds open for any possible explanation or leads. We need to systematically eliminate the options and narrow down the field – every possibility must be given its chance, no matter how ridiculous; if it fits the evidence, we see where it goes. Understood?”

Hermione nodded, her expression pale and grim. “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…’” she murmured, the Sherlock Holmes quote going completely over Draco’s head. Harry nodded however. Hermione looked up. “Even if that means–?”

“Yes, Hermione.” Harry replied curtly, both of their minds flying to the idea of an unknown horcrux. No matter how determined Harry was that Voldemort couldn’t possibly have returned, it would be unprofessional to discount it until they had evidence to the contrary. “Even _that_ is an option until eliminated.”

Hermione’s inward breath shook a bit, but she nodded and left the room for her own office, her face set with determination.

Harry turned to Draco. “Malfoy – you’re with me for the morning. You still need to learn the ropes, so I hope you are good at learning on the fly.”

Draco nodded, smirking very faintly. “What’s first?”

“Kingsley.”

 

“ARGH!” Hermione swiped a file off Harry’s cluttered desk in her frustration, papers flying into the air as the rest slammed to the ground.

It was pushing on towards three in the morning, and they were still at the office. Draco had been catching a quick nap in the corner, an open file loosely clutched in his hands, and Harry had fallen asleep hunched over his desk while trying to read the progress report from the forensics wizards. It had been a hectic day for the pair of them. After their meeting with Kingsley, in which the Minister had dispatched them with fervent good wishes, Harry had set to deploying his Aurors about the other cases the department was running, before Apparating with Draco through the list of locations for all the previous murders, examining each minutely for any residual clues.

Though there were only eight locations to visit, it took several hours. Most of the locations were in Muggle areas, and they had to Apparate to places where the Muggles wouldn’t see them and then walk to the crime scenes. Despite their efforts, however, they returned to the Ministry with their observations but few deductions. By that time, Hermione had tied up most of the loose ends of her own work, delegating matters to others in her department until she was able to return, Kingsley having impressed the importance of all their efforts being focused on solving the case as soon as possible.

She had been waiting for them in Harry’s office where all the case files for the previous seven murders had been delivered at Harry’s request, already engaged in making a list of areas they should research and investigate. She had added a handy little spell to Harry’s pin board which allowed them to swipe it left and right to reveal an endless expanse that would cater to their needs, and had begun to cover it with relevant pieces of information.

Draco had eyed the stacks of paperwork with an expression of distaste, but he and Potter had settled down to go through them, familiarising themselves with the details of each victim, the circumstances of their murder, and how they had been discovered. At times Hermione came to read a page over their shoulders before returning to her own line of investigation, or borrowed one of them for an opinion as she attempted to establish connections between the previous seven and the new group murder. Draco had pointed out the oddness of the murderer leaving a message – intentionally leaving clues in the form of the letters and the Marks, but astute as the observation was it did little to further the investigation beyond the fact that the murderer was insane, bored, trying to scare people, or trying to distract them.

Hermione had brought along the notes she had made during her involvement on the Bloodless Seven, and tacked them up to Harry’s pin board. Blundle had done his best to keep her out of the case, so she didn’t have much for them beyond confirming the lack of an Egyptian connection, but she had also noted the fact that the locations of the murders had often been in Muggle areas, despite the fact that the victims were all witches or wizards. If the murders hadn’t been patently magical, then it might have pointed towards a possible Muggle or Squib murderer, but instead she had scribbled in a note that the benefit of murdering in Muggle locations was the lack of magical interference. Passing witches and wizards were far more likely to register the presence of magical activity than Muggles, who could be warded off with a Repelling Charm unlike magical folk, and all the locations had been dark places – alleys, cul-de-sacs, and even beneath a bridge, where the minimal amount of traffic would occur, and fewer concealment charms would be required.

At Hermione’s exclamation and the thud both wizards jumped in their seats, pages fluttering to the ground and wands flying to their hands before they realised where they were.

“Wh-what is it, Granger?” Draco yawned, stretching.

“I can’t find _any_ good information on Dark Marks,” she complained, slamming the book in her lap down on Harry’s desk with enough force to make his quills jump. The groggy men winced at the noise.

By lunch Harry and Draco had managed to get up to date on the old case details, but Hermione had not been able to find much to tie the two cases together. When they reconvened afterwards – Hermione now with the preliminary information that her Bulgarian contact had been able to provide her with – they had decided instead to uncover all they could about the Dark Mark. Draco had flooed to Malfoy Manor and his own apartment to collect relevant books and scrolls on the subject, gathering all he could think might be of use, while Hermione sourced texts from the Ministry archives and the Auror library, going so far as to harass some Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries for some of the more obscure and dangerous texts.

Draco and Hermione had spent the most of the rest of the day trying to search for anything that might indicate it was a spell only Voldemort could cast, very much hoping it wouldn’t be. They noted down anything else of use while Harry dashed in and out of his office between helping them research, rushing off to meetings with people from the various departments he had mobilised, and meeting the Aurors he had dispatched to hear their reports. Draco and Hermione had glossed over their awkwardness by taking their professionalism to the extreme, but as they had become more immersed in the work, and dwelt less on their embarrassment and the odd bond that had been formed between them without their knowing or consent, they had relaxed enough to be almost comfortable sharing the same space as one another, if a little snappish at times.

“They all just say the same sort of thing – _The Dark Mark is both a symbol of the Death Eater’s loyalty to You-Know-Who, as well as the Dark Lord’s preferred method of summoning his followers_ – it’s useless! We already know that! _Everyone_ knows that! And still calling him ‘You-Know-Who’ – honestly!” she snorted with disgust.

The men watched as Hermione leapt to her feet, pacing back and forth. Harry’s office was fairly spacious as Ministry offices went, but with the three of them in there, plus the stacks of books and boxes of scrolls they’d source, it was becoming quite cramped, and Hermione only had a few feet of empty space in which to march. It was clear she wasn’t handling the lack of information in the books well.

She pulled out her wand, tapping it against her palm as she paced, frowning and muttering softly to herself as the men watched.

Even in this short time working with her, Draco had very quickly learnt when not to interrupt her.

She stopped, nodding grimly to herself, her arms straight by her sides and her expression set as though she was about to do something she’d really rather not.

“Hermione? What are you doing?” Harry asked warily as she turned towards Malfoy.

Hermione made no reply, only flicked her wand at Malfoy, unceremoniously shifting him and the chair he still slumped in away from the filing cabinets, and opening one of the drawers with the victims in it.

Draco glanced with curious anxiety at Potter, levering himself away from the wall where Granger had left him with his legs folded up into his lap, concerned enough about what she was going to do that he didn’t object to the ignominious position she had left him in. “Potter…?”

“Shush, you two,” she admonished, peering down at the corpse intently for a moment. Then she levelled her wand at the bare arm. “ _Morsmordre_!”

The office flashed green, and Harry’s heart leapt into his mouth at the spell.

Draco tensed, expecting the unpleasant wave of dark magic to roll over him as it had when he’d been branded.

Nothing happened however.

Hermione frowned down at the corpse.

“ _Morsmordre!_ ” she repeated angrily.

The light flashed from her wand once more, but again, nothing happened.

“You’re not evil enough, Granger,” Draco explained dully.

She whipped around to glare at him, cross that her experiment hadn’t worked. “Well why don’t you try then?”

Harry winced.

Draco knew Granger didn’t truly think he was evil anymore and that it was simply her desperate frustration to achieve something productive that had spurred the words, but he could help the frown that came to his face at them.

Wordlessly, he pulled out his wand and rose, moving to the corpse’s side as Granger shuffled back to give him room. Repressing a shudder, Draco pushed out a strained breath, pointing his wand at the man’s arm. “ _Morsmordre_!”

Green light filled the office a third time, and this time there was a faint sizzle in the air like a burnt aftertaste in the mouth, but when the three peered at the man’s arm again it was still blank.

Draco let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He didn’t care if it made him look weak – he didn’t have it in him to cast a Dark Mark, and that made him inexplicably happy. He’d loathed the things ever since he’d received his own. He _had_ been excited and proud to receive the honour – right from the moment he’d heard the news until the moment before the Dark Lord turned his wand on him, his red, snake-like eyes glittering with malevolent condescension upon his soon-to-be newest servant. That moment was the start of when things had begun to change for Draco. Those eyes were pitiless, and while pity was not something any Malfoy had ever or would ever desire, Draco had seen something in Voldemort’s eyes that he knew he could never accept into his own heart.

But then it had been too late.

His Mark had taken longer to heal than others. It had remained welted and red for weeks, nearly months, and simply being in the Dark Lord’s presence had aggravated the swelling. It had been a relief to get away from the Manor and back to Hogwarts. The inflammation had eased up then, but it had always seemed a little redder than his father’s or aunt’s. Probably because they’d had theirs for years. It wasn’t something he’d wanted to ask them about.

“So what did that achieve, then?” Harry asked, tired and exasperated. The spell was technically illegal, and he hated the uncomfortable prickle it gave him down the back of his neck. There was no doubt who had created it.

“Well, apart from establishing that neither of us are apparently evil enough,” Hermione replied scathingly, “very little.” She flopped back into her chair. “We can hardly test whether just any powerful Dark wizard can cast the Mark – we don’t have any!” She frowned irritably.

Draco frowned. “Not necessarily,” he murmured.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, inviting him to continue.

“Well,” Draco shrugged, “there’s always Azkaban.”

 

*

 

“So…just how often do you walk around with a corpse following you, then?” Draco asked. It was a poor attempt to make conversation, but at that moment anything was good as a distraction as he and Potter marched through the main doors of the wizard prison. The sealed black body bag floated behind them, but even without their peculiar entourage, it felt like they were walking into a tomb.

Harry gave Malfoy an odd look. “I think you’re getting the wrong impression about my job. This isn’t exactly the bread and butter of my work.”

Draco raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but settled for a glance back at the body bag and let the matter drop.

He let Potter deal with the Aurors guarding the prison, flashing a badge as they gained entry, and repressed a shudder. The Dementors might no longer guard Azkaban, but there was something of their essence left in the building. Its dank walls were permeated with the suffering of the countless individuals that had spent their last years tormented within its confines, and there was something of the Dementor’s soul-draining aura that still hung in the air, clinging to the thick cold stone like ghosts. Going inside was like being underground – a heavy, clammy weight pressing slowly harder on his shoulders the further in Draco went, while something of the Dementor’s residual essence plucked at him as though to tear little pieces off, his mind gravitating to his worst memories. His skin crawled.

Draco hated the creatures. When he had been on the side of the Dark Lord he and all the other Death Eaters had been protected from them, but that did not halt their effects, and he always found his mind revolving on the darkest and bitterest moments of his life when he neared them. He had longed for the ability to produce a Patronus since the first moment he’d encountered the Dementors on the train to Hogwarts, having rushed to the library to search for some sort of protection from the clammy worthlessness and despair, and found it was the only protection from them. But the magic was too advanced, and too light for any of the Death Eaters to have ever learnt the spell, and he had not harboured high hopes of his ever attaining the ability. Nor did he have any wish to be attacked by projectile maggots as the books speculated might happen if a Dark wizard attempted the spell. So instead he had languished in their presence, and he did so now, entering the cold walls of Azkaban. He could quite understand how it would make his father begrudge the Ministry every matter they asked of him.

“Granger’s not here?” he asked thickly, trying not to give in to the sensation of hopelessness radiating from the walls and determined to distract himself, unsure why his mind had gone to her, but not caring so long as the diversion worked.

Harry shook his head. “Hermione wants to test your theory about Muggles not being able to withstand the branding, just in case those men _were_ Muggles.”

Draco snorted. “They’re wizards; I’d stake my magic on it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but it was a half-hearted gesture. They were of the same mind on this matter. He shrugged. “She doesn’t want to leave any stone unturned, was how she put it. And I suppose that’s fair enough – I did say I’d keep an open mind about the whole case.”

Draco merely grunted. Granger was wasting her time. “How does she intend to test this then, supposing we actually find out that just any powerful Dark witch or wizard can create Dark Marks? I don’t really see Muggles queueing up to be blasted – they’re not that thick.”

Harry sighed. “She would use corpses from Muggle morgues. But there’s the rub. Kingsley refuses to let us put the Mark on any other corpses unless there’s a way of removing it from them afterwards – supposing our experiment here works. So she’s trying to find a way of reversing them. He says it’s disrespectful to the person whose body we use – which I agree with – not to mention problematic when they’re Muggles.” Harry sighed. “But it does make our job more difficult.” Ethics and morals made many things infinitely more complex in his line of work, but if they didn’t adhere to their principles then there really was little point in the establishment existing at all.

“It makes it impossible,” spat Draco bitterly. “There is _no_ way of removing the Mark. I should know – I’ve been trying to remove mine for six years now and nothing has worked. I can only hope that eventually it will just fade away. I wouldn’t put it past the Dark Lord to have burned it right through into my bones though.”

Harry shot him a look that came as close to sympathetic as was possible without antagonising Malfoy, then he frowned. “We’d better hope you missed something then, because the Marks are the only lead we’ve got at the moment, and if Hermione can’t find a way of reversing the curse then we’re back to square one. Can you give her a list of what you’ve tried? It might speed things up for her.”

Draco grunted and nodded. He held no hope whatsoever of Granger finding a cure, but there was no point in trying to tell Potter – the man just couldn’t give up on hope. He was addicted to it. Draco knew better: it just wasn’t possible. Better to be a pessimistic realist than a disappointed optimist. “Who’re we seeing then?” he muttered, chiefly to change the subject.

“McNair. He testified last time Voldemort fell and did it again, although Kingsley was less lenient than the previous Ministers to his dismay, so we’re hoping he’ll cave with fairly little pressure. If he thinks a deal might be struck, he’ll probably cooperate.”

“And _will_ you strike a deal?” Draco enquired, curious in spite of himself.

Harry shrugged. “Not unless I absolutely need to.”

“You better hope he or one of the others _is_ able to cast the Mark, Potter,” Draco replied darkly. “If they can’t, either they’re too weak or…”

“Or we have a strong Dark witch or wizard on the rise trying to replace Voldemort,” Harry finished grimly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t what he’d been going to say, and Potter knew it, but neither of them truly wanted to voice what both of them were thinking. It couldn’t be possible.

 

“How’d it go?” Hermione looked up hopefully from the books she was studying at Harry’s desk to meet the dejected countenances of Harry and Malfoy. Her own expression fell. “Not good, I take it?”

Harry shook his head, sending the floating body bag back to his filing cabinet with more force than was necessary. The drawer crashed shut, the noise ringing in their ears. “McNair’s either not evil enough, not powerful enough, or –”

“Or we’re in deeper shit than we thought,” Malfoy finished crudely.

Harry nodded. It was as good a way of phrasing things as any. He ran his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. “Please tell me you’ve found something encouraging, Hermione,” he pleaded wearily, collapsing into a chair. Draco remained standing.

Hermione’s mouth twisted.

Draco watched her, knowing that what Potter asked of her was the impossible. It would be interesting to see how Granger handled failure – because failure was the only option in this matter.

“Well…I haven’t found anything _dis_ couraging…yet.” It was a pathetic answer, and all three of them knew it. She gave Harry a sympathetic look. “But even I have to admit that if Malfoy hasn’t found anything in six years the chances of me stumbling across a cure are extremely slim. It would be sheer dumb luck at this point.”

Draco blinked. _Granger_ , admitting she was stumped? He glanced around, hoping some sort of magical scribe might pop out of thin air to record the moment for posterity.

Harry nodded wearily. Truth be told he hadn’t expected much more than that, whatever he might say. “Well, keep trying, Hermione. Please.”

Hermione nodded, turning to fish out a couple of files from Harry’s in-tray. “This might cheer you up, though.” She opened the topmost one, which was marked with the crest of the Magical Forensics Squad, and pointed to the writing in the middle of the first page. The two men leaned in. “Those men weren’t killed with the Killing Curse.”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry seized the folder, crumpling it with his urgency, staring down at the words as though expecting them to reform into a sentence telling him he’d been duped.

“I went down to the morgue and double checked their spellwork myself, Harry,” Hermione confirmed patiently as Harry scanned the report, Malfoy reading it over his shoulder. “Both bodies show signs of torture – the Cruciatus Curse mainly, but there was no trace of the Killing Curse.” She paused, her mouth twisted with an expression of discomfort and disgust. “They think they were tortured to death…and I’m inclined to agree.”

The two men exchanged identical frowning expressions.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Harry muttered, almost to himself. “If the murderer put the Mark on them, why go to the trouble of it only to torture them to death? Unless the Marks really are decoys? But even then, why not use the Killing Curse? It’s faster – and if they hung around too long someone would be bound to see them, or _hear_. But if this really is the Death Eaters, why brand someone who’s not on your side? And if they were on their side, why kill one of their own?” He screwed his hair up with his hands. “This makes _no_ sense!”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t like it either, Harry. Putting the question of the Marks to one side, there are only three reasons to torture someone: answers, punishment, or fun. And to torture someone to _death_? It’s like something Bellatrix would do.” She shivered, feeling a phantom imprint of the witch’s fingers biting into her arm as the point of her knife carved into her skin.

Draco shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s weird,” Harry let go of his hair only to put a hand back to his head as he thought. “Someone must be emulating her and Voldemort. He was too calm to do anything this stupid – he didn’t get off on torture like her, but this is too clever for her kind of viciousness. I think we can say it’s almost certainly not a vigilante though. There’s too much Dark magic involved for that.”

The others nodded. It was extremely uncommon for vigilantes – who were most often the families of those who had been killed or tortured by Death Eaters – to turn to Dark magic in their crusades for justice.

“So it’s either returned Death Eaters with serious internal issues, or a decoy done by a new Dark witch or wizard.” Draco summarised, frowning.

Harry nodded, sighing. “We’ve got to narrow it down. I have people on the lookout for any whisper of a new Dark Lord, but there’s not much else we can do about that side of things.”

“Focus on the Death Eaters,” Hermione said, waving her wand at an empty page tacked to the pin board so that a neat script of their latest developments filled it. “It’ll be easier to track them down than some speculative new Dark Lord, and if it _is_ a new Dark witch or wizard, once we find out we can eliminate anything related to free Death Eaters.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll need to get the latest list on who’s still at large amongst the Death Eaters from the Investigation Department – Hawker’s heading the effort.”

Hermione nodded, summoning a blank memo and scribbling out the request, the page folding itself up at a tap from her wand, and flying out the door.

Draco was frowning, still thinking. “Don’t underestimate people like Bellatrix, Potter. My aunt was vicious, cruel, sadistic, but she wasn’t a fool either. She was as cunning as any of them – if not more. If this killer is half what she was we’ve still got an incredibly dangerous person on our hands.”

Harry nodded soberly, frowning as he returned to the report. The crease between his brows deepened. “I don’t know these spells,” he murmured, then glanced up at Hermione in question.

Her expression hardened. “They’re very old magic. Ancient magic, really. And Dark – very Dark. They’re on a similar level to horcruxes, but older.”

Draco had peered over Potter’s shoulder again, and his mouth tightened. “I know some of these.”

Harry and Hermione turned to look at him, and his mouth was a hard line, his tone brittle.

“Some of them were favourites of Bellatrix’s – and Rodolphus too. I think it was probably the only thing they had in common; they were both sadistic to their marrow – Dolohov too. I heard them sharing stories at the Manor one day, about the ‘good old days’ when the Dark Lord was in power. The Cruciatus Curse was too efficient for them – too humane, if it can be called that. They used to use these on Muggles, witches, wizards – anyone who went against Him. Anyone who got on the wrong side of them or displeased them. They fancied themselves kings and queens back then.” A muscle flickered in his clenched jaw. “They used some on Ollivander when they had him at the Manor. Not too many – the Dark Lord wanted him alive – but the screams…” Draco’s expression went suddenly blank, the unreadable shutter falling automatically down as he began to lose control over his emotions, unwilling to let Potter or Granger see his moment of weakness and discomposure. His eyes remained haunted, however.

Hermione stared into them, gaining for the first time the faintest inkling of what it was to have Death Eaters for parents but not be truly of that persuasion yourself. A surge of largely irrational anger rose up within her, focused on his parents. She knew Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, she had seen him in action and knew he had definitely believed in the cause, but she also knew that it wasn’t possible to get out of Voldemort’s service without being either very lucky, very clever, or dying horribly. But Mrs Malfoy wasn’t. She’d managed to be part of the inner circle without taking the Mark. She could’ve protected her son from it if she had tried hard enough. Surely in a family as resourceful and cunning as theirs they would have stood a far greater chance of going into hiding than most. She frowned.

“They’re mostly medieval in origin,” she continued, keeping her voice as steady and neutral as possible to help Malfoy over the awkward break in the conversation. “The Dark Ages, to be precise – between the fifth and tenth centuries. And they’re…quite creative.”

Harry pursed his lips, and nodded. “So I imagine. Being civilised wasn’t much in vogue at the time.”

Draco snorted at Potter’s comment, having returned to himself, surprised at Granger’s tactfulness. But then she had come into his mind only yesterday, it was entirely possible that she had seen something of his past that made her feel sorry for him. Ridiculous woman. To go from hate to empathy in one swoop? A Malfoy would never do such a thing. _Gryffindors._

“And the Squad can’t find anything that might tie it to or cut it off from the previous murders?” Harry clarified, ignoring Malfoy’s tired amusement.

Hermione shifted, sighing. “The problem is that the other corpses are so old most of the magical data has been lost. We’re lucky they were still in storage – another week and the Ministry’s entitlement to hold them as evidence would have ended and they’d have been returned to the families for burial. If that idiotic fool Blundle hadn’t had his department off on a wild goose chase after vampires and damn _Pogrebins_ – which, might I add, don’t even _drink_ blood – he might have actually had Forensics look at them for traces of magic. He didn’t take kindly to my involvement on the case, so I never got a chance to check the bodies over myself.” Her mouth tightened with frustration. “We’re down to the very faintest trace elements left on the most recent body – and even that’s pushing five weeks old.” She rolled her eyes at her former colleague’s ineptitude. “ _But_ , what they _are_ finding does seem to be evidence of more old magic. Like these torture curses. It would make sense given the state the bodies ended up in.”

“So there _could_ be a connection,” Harry breathed.

Hermione’s mouth twisted. “Maybe. They were checking ancient Egyptian curses when I left. It doesn’t exactly fit with the origins or time period of the torture curses on our two, but they’re going through every civilisation’s torture methods trying to find a match. Egyptian curses won’t turn up though – I had Bill look at the bodies last time, and he said they didn’t resemble anything he’d ever encountered in the pyramids. But they’re still going to check through, just to be thorough. If what was used _is_ similar to the torture curses we have…there is a possibility of a connection. I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse.”

“Could go either way,” Harry sighed tiredly, dropping the files back onto his desk. “Thanks though, Hermione.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes drifting to settle on Malfoy. His gaze was at its default unfathomable setting as their eyes met but didn’t lock, steely grey lightly assessing the warm brown. “I was thinking I might give you a proper combat assessment later – if you’re not too tired, Malfoy. We need you cleared for fieldwork as soon as possible, just to be on the safe side.”

Draco searched for a challenge in the words, for that antagonistic spark to return to her eyes, but they regarded him kindly, patiently waiting for his reply. She probably thought he was in a state and needed delicate handling. He shrugged. “If you want, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as Malfoy turned away to hang his cloak on the hat stand. What was with having to appear put-together and impassive _all the damn time_? Normal people were allowed to feel emotions and have off days and just be, well, _human_. He seemed to think he had to appear untouchable. He could never be ruffled. He had to be, well, _Malfoy_. A slight smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. Perhaps she might ruffle those sleek white-blond feathers later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is incredibly dense in terms of the information dump. Hopefully I managed to spread it out so it wasn't too confusing and remained interesting though!  
> Things are starting to get more serious with the case, but don't worry - the humour is going to keep coming through. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
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	6. Think Creatively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets Draco in the arena again - this time for some proper training, and Draco learns that even when she's being fair, Hermione Granger does not go easy.

Hermione led Malfoy out into the middle of the arena. The pit was deserted but for them and Harry, who had come along, partly because it was in his best interests to see for himself how Malfoy fared if they were to have each other’s backs in a real fight, and partly because he was in need of a break and some amusement. He knew Hermione too well to not know when she was scheming, and he could tell she had some sort of mischief in hand. Nothing malicious, just something to get under Malfoy’s apparently inalienable immaculateness; a form of gentle hazing, unlike her former attempt.

Granger had changed back into her combat gear, and was grinning at Draco in a way that made him deeply unsettled. It was a wolfish kind of grin that he’d never expected to see on her, and it made him feel extremely vulnerable. It was about to get worse, however.

She raised her wand and gave a quick, careless flick at him before Draco could even react.

For a moment he wasn’t sure what she had done to him, but when he suddenly felt cold, he looked down and saw his neatly pressed suit and robes had vanished, replaced with one of those ridiculous skin-tight outfits that the recruits and Granger wore.

He now felt exposed _and_ vulnerable.

“What is the meaning of this, Granger?” he spat, too uncomfortable to bother being polite, automatically crossing his hands in front of himself.

Hermione smirked. “It’s standard training gear, Malfoy. It gives you better movement – we like trainees to start with minimum hindrance before adding normal clothes and robes to the mix.”

“I feel like I’m naked.”

Hermione shrugged. “I guess you’re as close to it as you’re going to get whilst still being covered up.” She eyed his embarrassed expression, astonished to find that his pale cheeks were actually tinted a faint pink, and laughed. “Who’d have thought the great Draco Malfoy would get so out of sorts just because of a bit of lycra.”

Draco forced his arms to his side, attempting to regain his usual poised nonchalance with little success. “I feel like I’m about to do a bloody ballet, Granger – not practice fighting.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Everyone who goes through combat training is in the same boat, Malfoy; stop being so silly.” Her hands had migrated to her hips, elbows akimbo.

“I’m not being _silly_ , I’m being perfectly reasonable,” Draco spat, determinedly ignoring the heat in his face. “Besides, it feels…restrictive.”

Hermione couldn’t repress the snort that bubbled up at that, and focused on keeping her eyes from wandering down from his face. “It’s only because you’re unused to clinging clothing. I assure you, there are no medical side-effects to, er, performance that might result from wearing lycra.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed at her words, glaring with penetrating force, but he only pressed his lips together.

Hermione smirked. It was clear from Malfoy’s body language that he had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to wear the ridiculous clothes, no matter what verbal protestations he uttered. “Right.” She slid smoothly into her usual opening statements for new recruits. “So the point of this is to give you an advantage over your opponents. It’s a new program that we implemented because until they get actual field experience, a lot of the new Aurors struggle with adapting to different terrains and situations, and aren’t very aware of how they can use their surroundings to their advantage. They need to learn to make their surroundings work for them, not against them. Furthermore, traditional one-on-one duelling doesn’t place much emphasis on spatial awareness, and there’s nothing worse than being blinkered in a real wand fight.”

Draco restrained himself from rolling his eyes as Granger went into teaching mode. It was just like being at school again, with her rattling off some of the apparently inexhaustible list of facts she committed to memory regardless of their applicability to the situation.

“Of course, if they don’t learn this beforehand, it could be too late to learn it on the job. So we added this segment of the training course. When you become an accomplished duellist it’s more helpful in terms of being able to get an edge over an opponent if you’re evenly matched. In such circumstances your options are limited – run, make a mistake and lose, wait for them to make a mistake, or fight until it becomes a battle of stamina. If you can think creatively in such a situation, you can distract your opponent, and give yourself the second you need to get under their guard. The key is to think creatively.”

Draco nodded, knowing from the expectant look in Granger’s eyes that she expected an answer of some sort from him.

“OK. We’re ready, Harry!”

Draco felt something akin to a light static buzz wash over him from the feet up with a tingle, and suddenly the arena had disappeared, replaced with a traditional duelling room with a long strip of purple grip down the centre of the wooden floor that marked out their centre line. There were a few suits of armour along the walls, and a mirror at one end.

“What just happened?” he asked warily.

Hermione grinned, a hint of pride in her tone. “You’re in the S.T.E. – it stands for Simulated Training Environment. It’s a spell I devised that allows us to put trainees through a wider variety of mock situations so they’re better prepared for real life combat than plain duelling. It’s simpler than going out on location.”

Draco glanced around. The simulation was flawless. Not that he’d tell Granger that. He raised an eyebrow. “Why are we in a duelling room then?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, moving to take up her place at the opposite end of the strip, raising her wand. “I need to find out your competency first, and that’s best done in plain surroundings. Later on I’ll train you in different locations and patch up any weaknesses. Take up your position.”

Draco moved to his place opposite her feeling extremely wary. It had indeed been a long time since he had done anything that even approached duelling, and it was clear that Granger was something of an expert if she was training rookie Aurors. He’d been glad not to have been too shabby when he’d versed her the other day, but his defensive tactics then hadn’t simply been strategy – it had been next to impossible to beat her to the punch and sneak in anything offensive. Furthermore, if that glint in her eye was any indication, she was not about to hold back on him. They might have reached an understanding, but that didn’t mean they were suddenly best friends. The thought occurred to him that even if he were Potter she probably wouldn’t hold back, and he felt marginally comforted.

Draco straightened himself, drawing up to his full height, and raised his wand.

They stared at each other down the strip for a few long moments, then–

“ _Stupefy_!”

Draco flicked his wand, lazily bringing up a shield with plenty of time to deflect the Stunning Spell that bounced off, boring a cindering hole in the wood panelling of the walls.

 _Non-verbal skills – good._ Hermione mentally checked the ability off on the list running through her mind – she’d already ascertained that much last time they’d fought, but it was best to be systematic about these things. She grinned; this might be quite fun – it was quite boring versing new recruits; they were all too easy to beat. Not to mention how good it would feel thorough trouncing Malfoy as part of work; now that _would_ be fun. There was something about his manner and near-constant composure that begged her to irritate him.

She swiped her wand through the air, sending a non-verbal Full Body-Bind Curse blazing at Malfoy, and he deflected it again.

 _Reflexes – good._ That was a given – he’d been a Seeker. But even those skills could get rusty.

Draco had decided it was time to go on the offensive, a little perplexed at how easy she was going on him, and stepped forwards, cords shooting out of the tip of his wand and flying towards Granger, eager to ensnare and bind her.

Hermione slashed her wand at the cords, sending them flying back towards their creator, now in the form of writhing, spitting snakes.

Draco saw the airborne reptiles with seconds to spare and dodged them, spinning around to incinerate them with a mental shout of _Incendio!_

The snakes turned to ashy coils on the floor behind him, and as he turned he caught sight of Granger raising her wand to the ceiling.

“ _Lumos maxima_!”

The sudden flash of light was as though the sun had been brought into the room, and Draco flung up an arm to shield his dazzled eyes, straining his ears for sounds of Granger’s approach as he blinked forcefully, seeing nothing but white. He heard a step to his right, and spun in that direction, blindly firing off an Impediment Jinx.

Harry watched from the benches as Hermione dodged Malfoy’s spell, impressed at how he was standing up to her test. To be fair to Hermione, she was being professional about it this time. She could easily have hit him with a spell the moment he was blinded, but he knew she was methodically testing Malfoy’s abilities in different areas, checking them off as she went. Hermione was nothing if not good at her job.

Hermione was surprised and impressed by Malfoy’s attention to his other senses while blinded – few if any recruits showed such awareness – although she firmly believed that his jinx getting as near as it did to her was dumb luck.

She waved her wand at the suit of armour his jinx had bounced off of, denting its breastplate, and the suit leapt into life, clanking nosily towards Malfoy, who was still blinking stars from his eyes.

He heard the metal man coming however, and blasted it apart, bits of plate armour flying everywhere as the last of the dazzle faded from his eyes. At last able to see, Draco waved his wand at the scattered pieces, and they all rose and shot towards Granger.

_Use of surroundings – good._

Hermione leapt, ducked, and rolled across the floor, the armour thudding into the wall where she had been standing, several pieces remaining embedded in it. A flick of her wand at the ashen coils behind Malfoy turned them into an icy puddle, another at the carpet dragging it out from under his feet so that he stumbled backwards, one foot landing on the ice.

Draco felt himself skid backwards, falling unceremoniously on his rear with a hard thud. _Ow. Damn you, Granger._ He rolled onto his side, and sent a Trip Jinx whizzing along the floor at Granger’s ankles, at last landing a blow on the wily woman so that she fell heavily to the floor.

Hermione gasped as the breath was knocked out of her, and she narrowed her eyes at Malfoy who had the temerity to smirk at her. He quickly realised his mistake.

Hermione directed her wand at the large mirror hanging on the wall behind him, shattering the glass into a thousand flying fragments which she directed at Malfoy.

He rolled right to see the oncoming sharp hail, and disintegrated the glass hornets into a fine sandy powder that rained down over him, although not before one shard cut him across a cheekbone.

Draco turned back towards Granger, who had regained her feet, and with a flick of his wand, sent the sand blasting towards her with enough force to exfoliate steel.

A quick twirl of her wand ripped the floorboards up in front of her, shielding her from the brunt of the exfoliating blast of the sand, which stripped off the varnish from the boards and began to swiftly wear through the wood.

_Ingenuity – good._

Hermione peeked around what remained of the boards as the sand faded, ducking back just in time as a fireball blasted towards her, Malfoy behind it as he ran at her. Spinning around to the other side of the boards, Hermione snuck her wand tip around the corner, and quickly diffused the fireball, shooting a Jelly-Legs Jinx at Malfoy and hitting him squarely in the chest with it in quick succession.

His speedy progress instantly halted as he began wobbling towards her, snarling out the counter-jinx and turning to glare at her.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. That nearly cost her.

Draco blasted away the boards, following the spell quickly with a stream of spiders as large as his hand that shot from his wand towards her.

Hermione screamed out, “ _Ascendio_!” just in time, flying up into the air, and out of the way of the tide of spiders, pointing her wand back down with a rapid, “ _Arania exumai_!” as she fell back towards the writhing carpet, blasting the spiders away.

Her feet had barely touched the carpet before the spiders began to converge on her once more.

“ _Opugno_!”

Draco’s eyes widened as the spiders rapidly turned and began to scuttle towards him with alarming speed. He banished them with a slash of his wand, back pedalling to be on the safe side, and was hit in the chest with a Stickfast Hex.

He fell to the floor for a second time in as many minutes, this time bouncing his head rather badly on the floor, the soles of his feet still glued to the ground. Draco had the wits to keep his eyes on Granger, despite the pain going through his head, and gabbled out, “ _Draconifors_!” his wand pointing at the scattered shield of the suit of armour.

A small dragon apparently made of enamelled metal instantly appeared, leaping before its creator, and breathed fire threateningly at Hermione. She brandished her wand calmly at it, her Shield Charm fending off the flames of its attack, and a moment later had vanished it.

Draco was ready for that, waiting for her to drop her Shield Charm to banish the dragon, and jabbed his wand at her, “ _Everte_ _statum_!”

Hermione flew backwards, and would have cannoned into the stone wall but for a timely Cushioning Charm. As it was she still experienced a nasty jolt of whiplash.

_Cunning – well…hardly needed to test that. Time to wrap it up._

“ _Langlock_!” Hermione knew that sticking Malfoy’s tongue to the roof of his mouth wouldn’t harm his duelling abilities, but his surprise at the odd sensation was what she wanted, and with a second flick of her wand, she had disarmed him, catching his soaring wand in her free hand.

Hermione marched up to Draco where he still lay on the floor, his feet stuck to it, and his tongue glued in his mouth. “ _Finite_ ,” she murmured, and the spells faded. “You did well, Malfoy. I’m impressed.”

Draco had to work hard to restrain a smirk, and was surprised when she offered a hand to help him back up to his feet. He paused a moment, regarding the hand and what it meant, then took it.

The simulated duelling room faded around them as she hauled him up, and they turned to face Harry who was coming across the ground towards them.

“So?” Harry asked expectantly.

Hermione wiped a little sweat off her brow, her cheeks very slightly pink from the exercise, and gave Draco a look he dared to think might approach respect. “He’ll do,” she replied stiffly.

Draco could feel his own sweat dampening the duelling gear, and was rather grateful he wasn’t in robes after all. “Merlin, woman. What does a guy have to do to get a full compliment around here?” he panted slightly.

Granger glared at him for a moment, making him think he’d crossed some sort of line, then punched him in the gut before his blood could finish freezing.

“ _Oww!_ ” Truth be told she hadn’t hit him that hard, but it had been unexpected.

“Suck it up, Ferret.” But she was laughing.

He could tell she was still wary of him; perhaps it wasn’t yet time to be relaxed around her. Damn Potter for lowering his guard, and damn himself for offering to let her into his mind. If they hadn’t called a truce he might have been more guarded – but then again, if they hadn’t called a truce, he probably wouldn’t even have been asked on the case. He wasn’t sure yet whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“You get turned into an animal _one time_ ,” he muttered sourly under his breath as they walked back to the benches together.

Harry chuckled.

 

Back in Harry’s office, when Hermione and Draco were back in normal office wear, and had freshened up a little after the fight, they reconvened.

Hermione had brought along the proper paperwork and began to fill it in, clearing Draco for fieldwork on the proviso that he took further training in the Auror program; at least an hour with her every day.

“Don’t you have other instructors?”

Harry and Hermione glanced up at Malfoy’s question.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with me being your trainer?”

Draco shook his head, backpedalling when he saw the impression he’d given. “No, I just thought – with the case…” he tried to wriggle out of giving her a compliment. He might not hate her anymore, but that didn’t mean he was about to go around dispensing accolades every which way. “You’d have more important things to do?”

Hermione’s expression cleared with comprehension. “Each trainer supervises a group of trainees – we teach them everything,” she said formally, professional once more. “Aurors should be competent in all areas, even if they specialise, and the one-on-one teaching method is more effective than one trainee having tutors for all the different areas. It’s easier for a single person to assess their progress than a group. I may not be an Auror, but I head the combat division because it’s my specialisation. I don’t teach it to all the trainees, however; I just devise the training program they undertake. Likewise, I’ll take you through the full course – sped up, obviously.”

Draco nodded.

Harry was pleased. If nothing else the fight had proven to him beyond all doubt that Hermione and Malfoy would be able to work together and maintain a professional relationship. It was a bit much to hope that Hermione would grow to respect or even like Malfoy as he did, but he knew she didn’t think as poorly of Malfoy as she had.

He watched as they each signed off on the papers, unable to help but feel a faint sense of pride in at least engineering the circumstances that allowed them to reconcile their differences. At school he had never thought much of Dumbledore’s talk about inter-house unity. Back then it had seemed an impossible task that Gryffindors and Slytherins could ever get along, but they were more than their ex-houses now, and after the War he had seen the devastating effects of division in a community.

Harry returned to the papers littering his desk as Hermione filed away the forms with a flick of her wand. The list of remaining known Death Eaters still at large had come through from the Investigation Department, and it was rather unhelpful. Five names were on it with “unaccounted for” beside them – which could mean anything from missing to presumed dead – the majority with their most recent sightings labelled as the Battle of Hogwarts, or even the break-in at the Ministry from their fifth year. A second and much longer list of potential Death Eaters and people with known blood supremacy beliefs was below.

Harry handed the list to Draco. “Do you think you could have a dig around and see if there are leads on any of them?”

Draco perused the list and nodded, waving his wand at the page and catching the copy that drifted into existence. “My father might have some ideas about their bolt holes and suchlike.” He reserved the comment that it would be as easy as pulling teeth with a rusty fishhook to get the information however. “I’m not sure how much anyone with real information might trust me though…it’s been pretty well publicised that I’m not on their side anymore. If I’m too obvious then they might catch wind we’re onto them. I have a few contacts, but we’ll see.”

Harry nodded his thanks and turned back to the wall of information by his desk, pinning the list onto it. “So…we’ve got a fairly strong connection to the previous seven murders. High probability that it’s a new Dark witch or wizard, or a Death Eater –”

“The spellwork will rule out some of them – the weaker ones like Crabbe and Nott,” Draco interjected, scanning the lists once more. “It’s specialist knowledge. They were just grunts. You can focus in on my _uncles_ ,” he sneered the word, “Rodolphus and Rabastan. And Rowle – he was a talented duellist. Possibly Travers.”

Harry nodded, and Hermione flicked her wand at the page, tiny glowing red stars appearing beside the names Malfoy had listed.

“So it’s likely to be a Death Eater with specialist curse knowledge, a thing for torture, and potentially something of an exhibitionist if the letters and the Marks are anything to go by.” Harry sighed and leant back in his chair. “It just makes no sense when you consider the previous seven. Why was their blood drained? Why one every seven days? Why seven people? Why the gap? Why the change in the method of killing? Why no letters on them? Why no Dark Marks?”

“Seven _is_ the most powerful magical number,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

A chill traced over Harry at the words, remnants of Tom Riddle saying similar words in Slughorn’s memory surfacing.

“I’ll look further into its significance,” Hermione said firmly, sensing Harry’s discomfort and drawing him back to the present. “I have Arithmancy books by Bridget Wenlock left over from school; she discovered the –”

“Significance and application of seven in Arithmancy, we know, Granger,” Draco interrupted. He knew she was a walking depository for all known to wizard-kind, but she really didn’t need to state the obvious.

Hermione frowned at his interference, “ _We_ know it because we studied Arithmancy,” she corrected him tartly. “I was saying so for Harry’s benefit.”

Draco rolled his eyes at her, but conceded her point with a twitch of his eyebrow.

“I’ll check through seven and any other numbers that seem significant in the case,” Hermione continued, giving Draco a brief glower edged with superiority before she returned her attention to Harry, who had observed the interchange with mild interest.

“I’ll check out potions and artefacts relating to it,” Draco added helpfully, sensing he ought to regain ground after his faux pas. Potions and Dark artefacts _were_ his speciality, after all. He received a curt nod from her.

“I’ll owl or firecall you if I find anything important before tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Likewise.”

Harry glanced between them, glad that some sort of headway was being made, and they silently split ways – Hermione for the Ministry library and archives, Draco for Harry’s fire to floo home to consult his own library, and Harry back down to Forensics via the personal lift in his filing cabinet to ensure that the connection between the two murders was as near to proven as possible. If they were going to work with that assumption, it _had_ to be right beyond all reasonable doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAGH. I know I said I was going to get back into an updating schedule, I'm sorry! Because it HAS been a while since my last update, chapter 7 will be following soon! 
> 
> As for this chapter, even though they're working together, don't think for a second that Hermione isn't going to have some fun with Draco. I mean, come on, the guy really does ask for it! 
> 
> Also, the case is moving forwards (slowly, I know), and there'll be more of that in the next chapter.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	7. Speculations and Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going forwards on the assumption that the two cases are linked, the team begins to work in earnest. But with nothing ruled out, and fears and theories running wild, how much are they getting right? And with three days until another murder might take place, they can't afford mistakes.

Hermione was jolted out of the text she was reading, _Wizarding Symbols and Their Meanings: The Power of Seven_ , by the distinct clatter of wings and claws as an owl arrived on her windowsill. She had moved onto some of her old Ancient Runes texts, checking through the significance of the letters as well as numbers, but it was very dense reading.

She squinted at her watch and came to the tired realisation that it was nearly three in the morning. She regarded the owl as she moved to let it in, hoping Malfoy might have made some sort of breakthrough, but she could tell from a glance that the creature didn’t belong to him. It was sleek and well-fed, but didn’t have the air of superiority she was sure an owl of Malfoy’s would have.

She took the thin letter it clutched in its beak, offered it a dish of water, and pulled off the purple wax seal. It was from Harry. His familiar untidy scrawl was rendered nearly incomprehensible with haste.

 

_Hermione,_

_We’re assuming the seven are connected to our case. The Squad have done all the tests possible and it’s not the same kind of magic as the torture curses, but it’s close enough. It’s very Dark stuff. Whatever spell was used on the seven was worse than the torture curses. You mentioned horcruxes earlier – the torture curses are a step down from that, but whatever drained the blood out of the victims was definitely on par with horcruxes. We need to see if we can find out what it was. I have a nasty feeling about this, Hermione._

_It’s a hunch, but we’ve got nothing else to go on, so we’re going to be prepared for the seventh day since our group murder happened. Including today (good morning, you should go to sleep) we have three days until the next murder happens – if we’re right. As the killings happened sometime on Sunday evening, we’re going to assume the same._

_If we’re right, it’s probably going to be another group murder. Two or more, I don’t know. So be vigilant, and stay safe._

_Harry_

 

Hermione’s outgoing breath shook, and the parchment trembled in her hand as she moved backwards to sit back in her desk chair. _On par with horcruxes…_ What kind of Dark magic was it that required the blood of seven adult humans? _Thirty-five litres._ Her stomach churned, ready to bring up her dinner, but she’d eaten hours ago and there was little more than bile.

Forcing a glass of water down, she hastily scribbled a reminder for herself.

 

_Look into blood sacrifices & spells regarding the same. Ask Malfoy about Potions for likewise._

 

She dropped the quill back in the inkpot, pushing herself away from her desk, and tottered out of her study and down the hall to her bedroom, summoning a potion for dreamless sleep from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She didn’t usually take anything to sleep, but thoughts of gallons of blood and torture curses were revolving around her mind, and Bellatrix’s laughter kept echoing on and on like some sort of horrendous travesty of a song stuck on repeat that, try as she might, she just couldn’t stop.

Crookshanks had been asleep on her bed, but gave a sleepy rumble as she came in, eyes opening very slightly. She gave him a quick stroke, but couldn’t be bothered trying to get changed or even to transfigure her clothes into her pyjamas, simply stripping off and flopping into bed. She pulled the covers over her, clutching them bunched tight around her neck like a comforting heavy shawl, Crookshanks snaking over to wind around over the top, purring as she screwed up her eyes, trying to blot out Bellatrix’s laugh. It rang on, however, so Hermione unstoppered the purple potion and gulped it down in an instant.

Warmth flooded her chilled body, bringing with it a sensation of utmost contentment and drowsiness. The cackling laughter was silenced, her thoughts of the case banished. She retained her presence of mind just long enough to stopper the bottle once more, but her arm didn’t make it all the way to her bedside cabinet with the bottle. Her mind at last calmed, Hermione allowed the potion to cloak her in easeful sleep.

 

The next morning, Hermione rose out of sleep feeling refreshed and perfectly ready for the new day. A glance towards the rather charming bronze disc of her floating wizarding alarm clock dispelled her calm contentment however as she saw it was pushing eleven o’clock.

With a shriek, she leapt out of bed, goose bumps covering her as the cool air of her bedroom struck her utterly bare skin. Shivering, she summoned her clothes from the wardrobe and let them dress her as she snatched the potion bottle from the floor where it had rolled off her bed. It was completely empty. With a slight moan as her silk blouse pulled its sleeves up her arms and buttoned itself up at her neck, she set the bottle back down on her bedside table and rushed to the bathroom, her skirt hopping up her body as she went, jacket trailing along behind as pins stuck themselves into her hair, transforming her wild bed-head mane into a rather large, but attractively untidy up do. She’d drunk the entire bottle, too tired and distracted to take notice of the proper dosage, and now she was the latest she’d ever been in her life. Her alarm clock had probably rung progressively louder until it woke the neighbours.

In the bathroom, she set her toothbrush to brushing her teeth with a flick of her wand. She washed her face with a flannel, hastily applying some moisturiser and a bit of eyeliner while it worked on her teeth, and sent a spell down the hall to the study where her papers and books whipped up into the air, rearranging themselves neatly into stacks and slipping into folders before all diving into regimented order in her bag.

Three minutes later she was ready and downstairs, summoning her shoes from the rack by the front door and thrusting her feet into them before she ran out the back door into her hedged garden, her heels punching holes in the lawn. She made her way to the bird table in the far corner, standing on a precise brick, and twisted on the spot.

 

“I’m sorry I’m so late!” Hermione cried as she rushed into Harry’s office, a croissant and pat of jam still clutched in one hand and a tea in the other. “I slept in.” She flushed and determinedly avoided meeting Malfoy’s gaze, sure he would make a comment.

“That has to be a world first,” Harry grinned genially. “Don’t worry, Hermione. At least it’s only a Friday. Loads of Ministry workers have half-days on Fridays.”

Hermione gave him an embarrassed half smile that morphed into a frown. “Friday or not, it’s no excuse,” she said primly. Then she seemed to notice the room. “Harry?”

The office had been enlarged and two more desks installed. Harry’s remained to the left of the door, Malfoy sat behind one that faced the door, and the other to her right, facing Harry, seemed to be for her.

“It seemed simplest if you two each had your own area to do your research while you’re here, and it means at the end of the day you can just leave it all where it is,” Harry explained.

Hermione frowned. “But I have my own office.”

Harry nodded. “I know it’s a bit inconvenient for you to have to split your time between here and there, but given that most of your departmental work has been delegated until we finish this, this way at least you can separate your work more efficiently.”

Hermione glanced at the desk that was meant for her, and had to admit the idea had definite merits. She smiled. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Don’t thank me – Malfoy came up with the idea.”

Hermione turned to notice Malfoy properly for the first time. His desk was already covered with opened books and sheaves of notes, but he had been watching her since she entered, his expression unreadable but intense. For no particular reason, it made her cheeks warm, and she suddenly felt very aware of the trailing curls of her hair. She didn’t usually spend much time on her appearance. A brief glance in the mirror to ensure she was presentable was generally sufficient preening for her of a morning. She did like to be well turned out, especially for work, but there was something about Malfoy’s gaze that made her a little self-conscious, and she had no idea how she actually looked today. No doubt in her haste she’d muddled the spell and her buttons hadn’t been done up properly or her skirt was inside out. She flushed deeper pink at the thought, and restrained herself from anxiously checking. “Thank you, Malfoy. It’s a good idea.”

He nodded curtly, then returned to his work.

Hermione cast Harry a confused glance, one eyebrow raised, but Harry just shrugged with a faint smile as though to say ‘that’s just Malfoy’.

Shaking her head slightly, Hermione went to her desk, taking the opportunity to relieve herself of her fears and discover that she was utterly presentable. Clearly Malfoy had a problem with her outfit itself. He could probably tell from a glance that she didn’t wear designer clothing. She rolled her eyes. Tough.

Draco, contrary to Hermione’s speculations, was trying very hard not to let his mind focus on the fact that she actually looked rather attractive, flushed and discomposed. It was a similar look to the one she had when she got cross, only then it was accompanied by the fiery spark in her eyes and a crackle in her persona. This tousled Granger was different. Innocent, somehow. It certainly bore out the idea that she had only just woken up. And there was something endearing about how flustered she looked.

He briefly contemplated what the sight of Granger sleep fuddled would be like, the corner of his mouth lifting, then caught himself. He shook his head, stuffing the thoughts into a very dark drawer at the back of his mind. He did _not_ need to start thinking like this. He sighed. He blamed it on those ridiculous Muggle training outfits.

 

It took a trip back to her own departmental office to gather up the other books and notes she’d collected for the case before Hermione was truly ready to work, sending the lot over to her new desk in Harry’s office before following them.

Harry had brought her up to speed on the information he had already appraised Malfoy of that morning – mainly yesterday’s findings in slightly more detail, and the fact that he’d dispatched Hit Wizard teams to each of the locations of the previous seven murders, as well as one to the group murder. It was extremely unlikely that the murderer would come back to that same spot within a week, but he had no desire to take chances. The teams were to remain in position, monitoring for any signs of suspicious behaviour on the off chance that they might make an easy capture and end the grisly business before it went any further. All three of them were silently cynical about the chances of things being so easy, but it didn’t do to voice their doubts, so they each maintained an optimistic façade after their own fashion.

Hermione discovered the note she’d written to herself that morning slipped neatly into one of her files, and shared the contents with Harry and Malfoy, the pair of them paling at the consideration of the sheer amount of blood taken from the bodies.

“It reminds me of Voldemort’s resurrection ritual – in the graveyard,” Harry said slowly, unwillingly, a grimace crossing his face. “ _Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son. Flesh of the servant willingly given, you will revive your master. Blood of the enemy forcibly taken…you will resurrect your foe._ ” He’d never mentioned the full ritual to anyone except Dumbledore and Sirius after it had happened, but the words had haunted him for years. “If it only took a few drops of my blood to bring him back, what in Merlin’s name will thirty-five litres do?”

Draco’s already pale face looked grey. “Anyone know how to make Inferi?”

Harry shook his head. “Spell, not a potion. This _has_ to be a potion again…if it’s anything at all, that is,” he added quickly.

Hermione’s hand had shifted to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “Oh, _Harry_ …you don’t – you don’t think...?”

Harry sighed deeply, resting his forehead in his hands. He’d said they would need to be open-minded in trying to solve the case, but he had _hoped_ , so hard, that he wouldn’t have to entertain this particular outcome. “I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I could say that there isn’t the slightest chance of that being what’s happened – but I don’t know enough about that sort of magic. We know the curse that killed the victims was Dark, and ancient. That resurrection ritual probably was too, with a bit of a spin on it from Voldemort. How can we know for certain?”

“We go to the Tomb.”

It was Draco who had spoken. His voice was emotionless and he still looked sick, but his face was set with resolve.

The Tomb was more of a catacomb than anything else. After Voldemort’s downfall, there had been a great deal of debate what to do with his body and those of the fallen Death Eaters. Many had argued against burial, stating they didn’t deserve the respect of the ceremony and ought to be burned, their ashes dispersed. But eventually it had been decided by Kingsley that the bodies ought to be preserved and entombed, more so that the location of their remains would be known in the event that such knowledge might be important in the future. A black cavern had been cut out of a rock at sea, of similar remoteness to Azkaban for the protection of Muggles and the peace of mind of Wizards, and the bodies entombed there marked with simple inscriptions bearing the name of the occupant and the dates of their birth and death. The spells protecting it were powerful, too. Many had tried to desecrate the graves to no avail, until Kingsley finally had to step in and begin issuing official punishments for attempting to do so.

“There’s no point, Malfoy,” Harry explained tiredly. “Even if Voldemort had made a horcrux and was trying to come back again he wouldn’t need his old body – or what’s left of it. Going there would tell us nothing.”

Draco nodded. “All the same, I think I’ll go.”

Harry shrugged. It was Malfoy’s choice. They all had to do things that helped them get through the night.

“If it _is_ some sort of…ritual,” Hermione hesitated to say ‘resurrection’, “then that would certainly explain why there were seven bodies, one killed every seven days. It’s got the right kind of rhythm of repetition to it.”

The other two nodded. As much as none of them liked the idea, it was the only theory thus far that actually explained the previous murders as well as tying in with what little evidence they had to go on.

“I’ll have a look at potions requiring that sort of cycle,” Malfoy murmured, shifting a stack of books with a thud of dust, and reaching for one at the bottom, _Phased Potions for the Unfazed Potion-maker_.

Harry stood. “I’m going to speak with Kingsley.” His face was drawn, and although his eyes were determined Hermione could see the fear in them. Voldemort returning was Harry’s worst nightmare. Ginny had told her about the night terrors that still seized Harry sometimes. The rest of the wizarding community didn’t fear the Dark Lord’s return – as far as they were concerned he was finally dead and gone, and the Ministry were rounding up the last remaining Death Eaters: they could sleep soundly in their beds. But Harry had been put through too much at Voldemort’s hands. That particular shadow would never leave his mind, only recede as time passed.

Hermione offered her friend a sad smile, trying to comfort him more than anything else, but Harry only nodded, his expression sad.

Draco watched the exchange curiously. Despite not being fond of emotional displays himself he was always interested to see them exhibited by others. They made people too easy to read, but it was fascinating all the same.

He waited a few minutes after Potter had left until he was sure the Auror wouldn’t suddenly come back in, then turned to Granger. She had returned to her work, trawling through books for information on blood rituals and sacrifices, and seemed so deeply engrossed in her task that she didn’t feel his eyes on her.

“Do you think it’s Him?”

Hermione’s head jerked up to meet Malfoy’s eyes. He seemed guarded, but that was different to impassive. When he was guarded, she could tell he felt something, and right now she was pretty sure it was the same fear that had settled in her heart.

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair away from the book with a sigh.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. It could be that we’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick – maybe there’s some other Dark wizard on the rise, or maybe someone’s just trying to scare everyone with a stupid idea and Dark magic.”

“But you don’t really think that, do you?” he pressed shrewdly.

Hermione sighed heavily, casting about for the best way to phrase her thoughts. “It doesn’t seem likely,” she answered eventually.

“Which is tantamount to saying you do think it was a ritual of some sort.”

Hermione closed her eyes. _Did Malfoy have to be right all the time?_ “It’s the only explanation that even comes close to holding water at the moment,” she replied reluctantly. “It even potentially explains the month-long gap after the initial seven killings. If they succeeded in doing whatever it is, they didn’t need to kill anyone else. And now they’re ready – that’s what this group murder was about. They’re sending a message – to fear them, to panic. They’re not interested in being subtle or being insidious. They want to announce their entrance.”

Draco nodded. Her thoughts had followed the same path as his.

“But it’s not Voldemort.”

He frowned at the conviction in her tone. “Blindly wishing it isn’t Him won’t help the case, Granger. Potter’s already doing that, although he seems to be coming around to the idea that it may be what’s happened.”

“It’s not wishful thinking, Malfoy,” Hermione replied crossly. “You heard what Harry said – this isn’t Voldemort’s style. He was dramatic, he liked the theatre of it, to create a spectacle – but not barely a month after he’d returned. Last time he bided his time; regrouped his followers. If it _was_ him, he would plan it out, quietly gather his Death Eaters, reform ranks and then announce, when he was strong and sure of victory, that he was back to the wizarding world. And that would take even longer this time because so many former Death Eaters are now dead or in prison. He wouldn’t try to take on the might of wizarding Britain with five followers – he’d at least try to break Dolohov and the others out of Azkaban.

“I know Voldemort returning seems to fit – it even might explain why our guys had fresh Marks on them if he was recruiting, and maybe found out they weren’t fully committed. But this isn’t him. It’s too different. It’s someone new. Someone who wants to command the attention instantly. Someone rash.”

Draco frowned in thought. Granger had a point. Even he had to admit, after spending his summer holiday with the Dark Lord, this wasn’t in keeping with his methods. “Then who?”

Hermione shook her head. “I have no answer to that, Malfoy. Your guess is as good as mine.”

They both sighed, and returned to their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd post again soon!
> 
> So I know this chapter kind of generates more questions than it answers, but this is a murder mystery! Hopefully it's being mysterious enough. Theories and speculations are most welcome!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor  
> http://jzj-tomkins.tumblr.com/


	8. Put to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry steps out to allay his worst fears, and work on the case begins in earnest.

Harry stood by the gates to the Little Hangleton graveyard. He hadn’t mentioned his intention to visit the site of Voldemort’s resurrection to Hermione because he knew she’d want to come, and that if she didn’t she’d worry about him until he returned. Only Kingsley knew where he was. Ginny would be furious if she found out.

Harry sighed as he thought of his fiery fiancée. This was for her. He _had_ to know. He had to know that things were safe for them, for her. He’d pushed her away once before when Voldemort had returned for her own good. He knew she’d never let him do it again.

Pursing his lips, he put a hand to the gates, pushing the cold metal bars apart, and striding in.

The Ministry had sent Aurors to the spot after he’d returned with Cedric’s body and the Triwizard Cup. They’d scoured the area for Death Eaters and clues, but there hadn’t been a single trace of their presence – not even a scorch mark on the grass from the cauldron or a destroyed stone cherub. Voldemort and his followers had been meticulous in covering their tracks after the botched attempt to kill him. Not that it would have made much difference with Fudge as Minister. They probably could have set up a welcoming committee with tea and cakes and Fudge would still have disbelieved it, he thought sourly.

He halted on the edge of the clearing where he’d duelled Lord Voldemort for the first time – where he’d spoken to his parents for the first time. There was nothing visible to show their battle, but Harry could feel the crackle of magic in the air as though the duel was happening around him. That kind of magic marked a place, like Dumbledore had said. What had happened there was burned into the makeup of the spot.

Slowly, he crossed the area, as though he truly was walking between his younger self and his enemy mid-battle, and stopped before the gravestone of Tom Riddle Senior. The cracked stone had been repaired, but a simple spell of Hermione’s devising, that acted in the same way as an X-ray, told him that the skeleton below had not been touched recently. A fissure in one femur showed where Pettigrew had extracted the powder to resurrect his master, the bone cracked nearly all the way through, but all else remained untouched.

Harry cancelled the spell and let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. Blood of any enemy of Voldemort’s could be substituted in place of his own, but the bone had to be from Riddle’s father. They were safe. He wasn’t back. There was no other way for Voldemort to return. Collecting himself, and trying not to let his relief make him incautious, Harry raised his wand to begin casting warding spells that would tell him of the presence of any witch or wizard coming into the vicinity, and sealing the stone bier with spells of protection that would trigger an alarm the moment they were broken.

Satisfied, Harry made for the gate. _He’s dead. He’s dead and he’s not coming back. We’re safe._ He squared his shoulders. _Now to catch our nutter._

 

Harry returned to the office from his secret expedition with the information that the Kingsley was deeply unsettled by their current theory, and not to disclose any further details of it beyond their group of three until it was proven.

Hermione gave her friend an odd look. He seemed different, as though some weight had been lifted off his chest, although she very much doubted Kingsley would have had much to say that could have effected such a transformation. She dismissed the matter however; there were more important concerns to worry about than Harry discovering an effective means of stress-relief.

She and Malfoy were growing increasingly frustrated in their search for information about Dark magic and anything to do with blood magic or sacrifices. There was a great deal to be read on the latter, the spells and potions disturbing in the extreme, and they had sourced texts from the Ministry archives from other countries, but there was nothing yet that matched the case. What was more, although there was plenty to be said on Dark magic, there were very few books that had the actual practitioner’s details required to perform the spells and curses (which was a very slight relief despite the inconvenience of it), and even fewer detailing the old magic they’d found evidence of.

Harry, his seemingly cheerful mood still about him, settled down to help their search.

 

Hermione eventually managed to dig up a tenth century text of medieval torture curses that was unfortunately bound in preserved human skin, and they were at last able to identify most of the curses that the Forensics Squad had listed. Unfortunately, the book was not particularly academic, which would have more than suited their purposes, and its thousand-year-old pages were musty, spotted with mildew and other, less innocuous stains. The excess of information allowed them to imagine just how brutally the two men had been murdered however, as the effects of the spells had been written out by the author who, it seemed, revelled in inscribing every gory detail, and it had galvanised their flagging efforts. None of them wanted anyone else to have to die in such a horrendous manner.

The best part was that the book gave them a time period to look for the blood magic, but surviving books were rare, not simply because of their age, but because many grimoires of Dark magic had been destroyed throughout the ages, and with good reason. Almost every century had had a period where the wizards of the day had instigated a mass purge on Dark magic, but their adversaries had been cunning enough to hide their tomes whenever prohibitions on evil books had occurred so that sufficient texts remained. Unfortunately, the present guardians of such books were less than likely to come forward with them to aid a Ministry case, particularly as they would probably face charges for possessing such books in the first place. Investigation into owners as leads therefore was a moot point.

Hermione was simultaneously trying to continue her research into methods of removing the Mark, Malfoy having provided her with a list that was essentially a book of what he’d tried and what had happened each time.

Her desk was the most cluttered of the three, divided into a section on Dark Marks, a section on blood magic, a section on ancient Dark magic, a section on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes where she was searching for any symbols or numbers that might relate to the case, and a section on missing persons from Britain and Bulgaria. A number of books and scrolls of parchment extended beyond the edges of her desk, held aloft in mid-air by an intricate network of charms so that she was surrounded by a literal wall of paper. She was somehow managing to work on all five simultaneously, flitting between each area with no apparent rhyme or reason. It was an astonishing sight to behold, and one that both captivated and astounded Draco, who had never watched Hermione studying during their schooling.

Harry was used to her methods, although her flustered and frustrated expression and the growing stacks of books and scrolls around her reminded him of sixth year when she and Ron hadn’t been speaking to one another. This time, of course, she was not burying herself in work as a distraction, but he worried that her stress levels were approaching those she had reached at that time. It concerned him, although he was mildly relieved to see she was sharing some of the Arithmancy and Rune work with Malfoy – he didn’t have the luxury of time to worry about whether she was going to start working herself into the ground. He was still under the pump, dealing with reports coming in from his Hit Wizards, as well as the investigation teams he had sent out to scour the crime scenes for trails that might lead them to clues if not the murderer.

Specific to the case, he was handling looking into the significance of the letters, searching for individuals and organisations with the letters E.W. or W.E., regardless of their affiliations. His head was beginning to ache as the list grew in length, and it was with no small amount of relief that he constantly reminded himself that he could later delegate the actual investigations into what he found. The Forensics Squad seemed to have at last finished, and he was mildly grateful not to have to deal with any more incoming reports from them, but there was still the rest of the Auror Office to manage. Simply because he was heading a case did not mean that he was excused from running his department, and there were a dozen other ongoing cases that required his occasional involvement.

If he hadn’t been so busy himself, Draco might have felt sorry for the amount of work Granger had taken on. Even though Potter looked harrowed, and he himself was feeling more stress than he had in a long time, it was clear that neither of them were taxing themselves as much as Granger, and he could see it beginning to wear on her. He appeared the least flustered of them, however. It was the Malfoy way. He calmly went through book after book on resurrection potions and potions involved in Dark magic, making notes when he deemed it appropriate, cross-referencing and narrowing down the list with the information Granger was providing him about the significant numbers and symbols she found.

In between, he scribbled down speculations about the list of unaccounted for Death Eaters Potter had given him yesterday, wracking his brains for details of those on the blood prejudices list, and sending owls to those of his acquaintances who might know more. He’d tried subtly questioning his father for information the previous day, but Lucius had been in an atrocious mood as Narcissa had insisted that he revised what he’d learned in his re-education class on Thursday, and Draco had guessed there was little point in continuing his endeavour.

His mother had not been able to shed much light on most of the people on the list, having spent the majority of her time amongst the Death Eaters regarding the rest of them with condescension, as great number of them had come from lesser families with poorer fortunes and less refined manners. It was possible for her to look beyond inheritances, but etiquette was something Narcissa was famed for being a stickler about.

The only information she remembered about any of them was her distaste for them and paltry details regarding potential weak points where an advantage might be gained – neither of which were particularly useful. She’d accepted that he was acting as a consultant on a confidential case for the Ministry, used to her son’s terse explanations when it came to questions regarding his work with the Ministry, and had summoned a house elf who brought a list of the Lestrange residences, but that had been as far as her help had gone. He knew the Ministry had already sent Aurors around all the houses, however, so his investigations in that area had ground to a halt.

 

Hermione and Draco headed down to the Training Facility after a few hours so Hermione could test Draco’s ability at stealth, tracking, concealment and disguise. To both it was a welcome reprieve.

All the areas seemed to be natural Slytherin qualities, and he excelled in each, showing a particular aptitude for all things sneaky, although his self-transfiguration spellwork left something to be desired.

“You don’t mess with a masterpiece,” he complained as Hermione tutted at his third effort to alter his features.

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “You still look too much like yourself,” she critiqued. “The point isn’t to make yourself look better or worse, it’s to make you look not like yourself. You don’t _want_ to be recognised.”

“Yes, thank you, Granger, I do know what ‘disguise’ means.”

“Well you’re not acting like it,” she retorted.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, internally amused by her exasperation. “Fine.”

He turned back to the mirror, waving and prodding his wand by turns, and when he finally turned back to her Hermione saw a man who could well be her taller twin brother, if she had one.

Draco had made his hair longer, shaggier, with a distinctly bouncy curl to it, and a little darker than Granger’s. A curling fringe flopped annoyingly across his vision, and his front teeth had been marginally elongated, the feeling quite strange, and the pointedness of his features softened and rounded out more to mimic hers, the line of his jaw brought out more strongly to compensate for it. He’d even gone so far as to change his silver eyes to brown, and he’d slightly altered his skin tone to bring more warmth into it. He raised a thickened dark eyebrow. “Well?”

Hermione blinked. It was a distinctly odd sensation looking at a male approximation of herself, and even stranger to hear Malfoy’s voice coming from it. “Not bad.” She frowned. “You missed my freckles, though.”

Draco squinted narrowly at the bridge of her nose, suddenly leaning in quite close for his inspection, then turned back to the mirror, muttered something, and faced her with an identical smattering of the pale brown spots.

Hermione ignored the flip-flop his brief proximity had caused in her chest, her face an impassive mask. “Passable.”

Draco rolled her eyes. “Do you ever give a full compliment, Granger?”

Hermione grinned. “When it’s warranted, yes.”

Draco turned away, muttering darkly to himself about her standards.

“Right,” Hermione flicked her wand and the full-length mirror disappeared, the S.T.E. materialising around them, this time providing a potentially treacherous moor covered with thorny gorse and flowering heather. “We’ll have a spar, and then get back to the office.”

Draco grinned. He’d been looking forward to testing his abilities against her again. He’d done a little practice in secret at home, brushing up on his spells, and very much hoped to surprise her and maybe catch her off guard.

“You’re not going to fight me looking like that, are you?”

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, his signature smirk looking very odd on his transfigured face. “You said this is about thinking creatively. If it’s a distraction to you, yes; I’ll fight looking like this.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You must think I’m easily distracted then,” she muttered, and brandished her wand.

 

Despite wanting to continue working through lunch, Hermione obeyed the vocal grumbling of her stomach, and left the office a few hours after she’d returned with Malfoy.

The sparring session had been good, although the gorse had given them scores of tiny scratches and both of them had risked breaking their ankles in rabbit holes as they leapt and dodged about through the shrubs, but then that had been the point. Malfoy definitely seemed to be improving, successfully transfiguring a boulder into a huge bear that raced after her, roaring threateningly. Afterwards Hermione had altered the spell to make the bear more amenable, and they’d watched it bumbling around in the heather, tiny purple flowers catching in its coat, before Hermione had dropped the simulation.

Unfortunately, the exertion had increased her appetite. The other two had brought packed meals with them, Harry’s done by Kreacher (which made her envious), and Malfoy’s by his house elf (which made her glare at him), so stayed behind, and Hermione took the opportunity to resurface, clear her mind, and take a break.

As a treat, and because a croissant and cup of tea really had been deeply insufficient as breakfast, she left the Ministry for Muggle London, leaving her robes behind in the office and going out in her Muggle office attire. She blended in perfectly. It was delicious to get above ground and simply be surrounded by people for whom magic was just a word that belonged to fantasy stories and nursery rhymes, where the threat of a Dark Lord rising again was inconceivable, and their daily concerns were taken up with hoping that the Tube wouldn’t be packed and how much they wished it was Friday.

It was late autumn, but the day had graced the population of London with a rare bout of warmth, and Hermione allowed herself to bask in the autumnal sunlight, refreshing herself after being underground for so much of the day. Her own office had a large bay window with a window seat that she sometimes read on at lunch, but Harry did not have space for such frivolities, and every inch of his wall space was taken up with information about cases. She sighed, swinging her arms, and letting the tension roll out of her shoulders.

Most of the cafés and restaurants in Whitehall were quite expensive, but she’d found a nice little wizarding café, _Ralston’s and Hayworth’s_ , tucked away on a side street that managed to cater to both Muggles and the magical community. They had a special licence from the Ministry which meant that they had to abide by all Muggle laws and food regulations to ensure they didn’t break the Statute of Secrecy, but they were mainly frequented by witches and wizards who were canny enough fit in with Muggle dress codes. It had been set up by a squib called Castor Ralston who’d married Muggle-born witch, Penny Hayworth, and they were particularly proud of their record of hiring squibs and witches or wizards who were capable of operating Muggle paraphernalia. They were the only wizarding establishment to hire Muggle employees in the whole of the British Isles, although there were not many, and all totally unaware of their employers’ magical connections.

Hermione strolled in, ordered one of their excellent chicken and leek pies, and a pumpkin one to take away, thinking she might save herself the trouble of cooking and eat it with a salad for dinner. She nodded to a couple of Ministry workers she recognised from the Muggle Liaison Office in a far corner, taking a seat at a round table by the window, sighing in the scent of the flowers in the colourful window box and spinning hanging baskets that adorned the eaves outside.

It was a relief to cast off the burden of the case, even if it was only for a few minutes.

 

Partway through the chips and salad that accompanied her meal, one of the waiters approached.

“Your coffee, ma’am,” he said, placing a cup and saucer on her table with a pointed glance before leaving.

Hermione was well used to the protocol and glanced down at the froth. The dusting of hot chocolate powder reformed itself from the café’s logo into a message.

 

_An owl’s arrived for you._

 

Hermione frowned, but nodded faintly at the cup, and the powder returned to its previous state, erasing the message.

She stood, crossing to the back of the café and heading for the saloon doors to the bathrooms, murmuring, “Bubonem,” as she passed through them.

The doors opened onto a courtyard rather than the little square room with the toilet doors that had been visible before, and an owl stood on a perch in a corner, drinking and nibbling on some owl treats. At the sight of her its calm demeanour vanished and it flapped its wings agitatedly.

Hermione hurried over, the owl ceasing its urgent communications so she could take the scroll tied to its leg.

She unrolled it and read the brief message, her expression darkening as she did so.

“I don’t believe this!”

She rounded on her heel as the owl took off behind her, the letter crushed in her palm as she stalked back towards the doors, spitting the password to let her back into the café, and scooping up the rest of her unfinished lunch, which the staff had already packed into a container for her, along with the pie for her dinner, she hurried out into the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY AN UPDATE!  
> So I am now doing my post-grad in SCOTLAND. WHOOHOO. I am basically at Hogwarts. 'nuff said.
> 
> Bit of a short one, I'm afraid. Lots of setting up what they've got to do to solve the case, so I hope you like that sort of thing. And with Harry's fears allayed, WHO COULD THE MURDERER BE???  
> I had good fun with Hermione and Draco's training session #sassy XD  
> Also, doing a bit of world building with the cafe was great fun. I like the idea of Muggles and Wizards actually getting along to the point of integration of sorts.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! And I'll try to remember to post the next chapter soon!
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	9. We Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team have an awful Friday, and a Saturday that was supposed to be the calm before the storm is anything but.

“Look at this!”

Harry and Draco jumped as the door slammed open to admit a furious Hermione, a crumpled piece of paper in her outstretched hand. They winced again as the door crashed shut behind her, exchanging mystified expressions of concern.

Draco was nearest and took the scrap, straightening it to read the message aloud.

 

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I regret to inform you that beyond the initial missing persons list I provided with you on Tuesday, there is no further information I can provide regarding the photographs of the two men you sent us._

_Kind regards,_

_Anastas Konstantinov_

_Head of the Missing Persons Unit_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Bulgarian Ministry of Magic_

 

“It took them _four days_ to get that information. They gave me a missing persons list in a few hours, and it takes them _four days_ to tell me they know nothing about those men,” Hermione stormed incredulously, marching up and down in the space between their desks. “Not only that, but they can floo me the list but not _this_?! Don’t they know they’re holding up an investigation?! I could have spent my time on better things than trying to sort through the lists they gave me!”

“Calm down, Hermione,” Harry soothed, having taken the letter Draco passed him to look at it himself. “There are a lot of people they have to check to know whether those men were from their country…although admittedly, using an owl instead of the Floo is pretty odd.”

“That’s not the point, Harry,” Hermione insisted angrily, the bag of pies swinging agitatedly in her hand. “I checked the bloodwork the Squad did. Those men _are_ Bulgarians. Their DNA matches with the area.”

“What?” Harry looked gobsmacked.

Hermione halted and twisted her fingers anxiously now. “I didn’t want to tell you until Anastas got back to me – I thought he’d have information on who they actually are.” She sighed.

“They’re hiding something.”

Hermione nodded, agreeing with Malfoy. “The only question is what. Why would they hide something like this from us?”

“Shame?” Harry tried. “They haven’t exactly distinguished themselves recently. There was the business with Grindlewald, and Durmstrang’s always had a dodgy history, then the fiasco at the 1994 World Cup, and Karkaroff. If the men were Voldemort sympathisers they’d hardly want to own up to the fact that they haven’t been able to stamp it out in their own country. It’s not that uncommon for countries to disavow some people…although admittedly they could still tell us who the men were if they did. We’re hardly in a position to judge given _our_ track record with Dark wizards.”

Hermione sighed, going over to her desk and falling into her chair. “So what now? The victims are Bulgarians whom their own Ministry won’t admit to knowing, possibly Voldemort sympathisers, but they were murdered and branded? It doesn’t add up. Unless they defected, but then why brand them? It doesn’t make sense, Harry!” Hermione screwed her hands up into her hair, forgetting it was in a bun, accidentally dislodging the pins so it fell down in a half-restrained tangle around her shoulders.

Harry shook his head, and glanced nervously at Draco who nodded very slightly. “Malfoy and I were just talking about it…” he frowned. “I think we’re going to have to let the next murder happen.”

There was a brief silence.

“ _What?_ ” Hermione hissed, sitting bolt upright once more, the wildness of her hair making her look both crazed and angry. “Can you hear what you’re saying, Harry?!”

“I know, Hermione! I don’t like it either but we don’t have enough information, and we’ll only get more from another murder. We need the evidence. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.”

Hermione gazed blankly at the walls, shaking her head, the last of the pins falling out and her hair tumbling around her face in a bushy mane. “I’ve gone insane,” she muttered, “this is a nightmare.”

“It’s not like we’re going to just let it happen, Hermione,” Harry argued, “we’ll try to stop it, but when we’ve got so little information we’re practically just waiting for it to happen. We’ve basically got the rest of today to try and figure things out, then Saturday to wait, and Sunday. There’s really very little chance of us actually managing to stop it, let alone catch the murderer. There’s next to no way they’re going to return to a previous site, and we’ll be lucky if they choose a spot close enough to where the Hit Wizard teams are stationed that their wards will pick up on any offensive magic being used. We’re in the dark whether we like it or not.”

“He’s right, Granger,” Draco added, watching her carefully for signs that she might explode or start hexing them. “We’re working entirely with speculations at the moment. We don’t even know if there _will_ be a second group murder.”

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head disbelievingly. “I know,” she muttered. She pushed her hands through her hair, scraping it back from her face and flicking her wand so the scattered hairpins rose up, busily reaffixing themselves. “Fine. We wait. But I don’t like this.”

Harry pursed his lips. “I don’t think any of us do.”

They all glanced around at each other, expressions glum and grim.

“I’d better tell Kingsley,” Harry muttered.

Hermione nodded mutely, glancing down at her half-finished lunch, her appetite and former serenity vanished. It was turning out to be an awful Friday.

 

*

 

Draco woke late on Saturday morning, relieved it was the weekend at last, despite the fact that he was dreading Sunday as much as Potter and Granger. They’d parted ways late the previous evening, all of them hoping desperately that something might come up to help stall the horrible decision they’d been forced to take.

            No owls had arrived for him in the night however, and they had all agreed not to contact each other unless they came across a serious development, so he knew that neither Potter nor Granger had made any headway either. He didn’t doubt that Granger had probably stayed up till the wee hours, reading her eyes bloodshot in an attempt to find anything that might help. If Potter had any sense he would have stunned his friend and levitated her into her bed before she worked herself into a skeleton.

He’d promised his mother that he would come over to the Manor after lunch to take them to the Victoria and Albert Museum and then to see _Tosca_ in the evening. His mother was currently torn between it, _Dido and Aeneas_ , and _Madame Butterfly_ as to which were her favourite. The outing was an attempt to show Lucius that Muggles were capable of sophistication and art after he’d disparaged the class about the workings of electricity, and although Draco did not hold high hopes for his mother’s success, he was a necessary pawn in her schemes. Without his presence, neither she nor his father could leave the boundary of the grounds. Which meant that he was probably going to enjoy himself even less than his father today.

He took his time about getting ready, having a leisurely brunch and checking in with the reports from his businesses to ensure all was well with them, delaying his arrival at the Manor for as long as was possible without encroaching on his mother’s plans for the day. He knew his father would not take kindly to being forced to see Muggle things in a Muggle building filled with Muggles and then to listen to what he’d probably call cat’s screeching written and performed by talentless Muggles.

Personally, Draco had nothing against opera. In fact, he actually quite enjoyed it, although his grasp on Italian wasn’t really sufficient enough to render complete translations of what was being sung about. He’d learnt French and Latin, and that had been all there was time for before he went to Hogwarts. They had been the most important, in any case. His mother was different – fluent in French and Latin, but also Italian, German, and Greek. She had the knack of easily acquiring new languages, something neither he nor his father had ever been very gifted at. Which would probably be another thing for his father to grumble about.

 

When he finally arrived at the Manor, however, Draco realised that he’d made a mistake. The thing his father was going to hate most about the entire ordeal was wearing Muggle clothes.

“I want my robes, dammit!” Lucius snarled.

Draco had followed a nervous house elf to his parents’ suite, the creature scurrying away as quickly as possible, clearly sensing her master was in a kicking mood, and Draco entered alone.

Lucius was sneering at his own reflection in a full-length silver mirror. As far as Draco could see he wasn’t really wearing anything too different from his normal clothes; it was all just pared back. Eliminating robes and a cloak were a given, and his mother was holding a rather smart black coat by the bed, ready to wrestle her husband into it. Lucius had lost weight in prison, and Narcissa had taken it upon herself to ensure he wasn’t taken away by a breeze. The coat was thick, and seemed to be wool, with a faint grey check running in slender lines through the fabric.

Draco eyed his father. The suit was certainly less ornate, cut from what seemed to be black wool, with silk facing on the lapels. A very dark green paisley waistcoat was beneath the blazer, and there was not a scrap of velvet or a line of fur trimming to be seen anywhere, but it was Muggle enough to fit in, and wizarding enough to be worn under robes. It really wasn’t that bad.

“ _Lucius_ ,” Narcissa said warningly, “it’s a very nice suit. It’s made by very well-known Muggle tailors. Now put on your coat.”

Lucius scowled at her, the thought that the reputation of the Muggle tailors was irrelevant clearly going through his mind. “It’s hideous.”

“It’s better than what the prisoners in Azkaban wear,” Draco commented.

Lucius caught sight of his son standing behind him the doorway in the mirror and scowled at him. “Since when did you know what the prisoners of Azkaban wear?” he snarled. “I don’t recall you visiting during my incarceration at the hands of your dear Ministry.”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “I had my education to finish and then the family name to resurrect – or don’t you remember your part in blackening it?” he replied coldly.

Lucius’s eyes bulged at the impertinence of the remark, but Narcissa interceded before he could speak.

“That’s _enough_!” she eyed each of them sternly. “I want both of you to apologise. This instant.”

The Malfoy men glared at her, then one another, and then the room in general.

“I’m waiting,” Narcissa’s tone was sharp. Even without a wand she could still make life hell for both of them.

“Sorry, Father,” Draco said coolly.

Narcissa turned expectantly on her husband. He shot her an indignant look, but as her glare intensified, bowed to her will.

“Apologies, Draco,” he ground out.

“Good.” Narcissa picked Lucius’s coat up again, thrusting his arms through the sleeves before he could protest and buttoning it firmly up at the front and winding a green scarf around his neck, tucking the ends inside his blazer. “Right, we’re ready. Draco?”

 

The day felt interminable. Ordinarily Draco quite enjoyed the museum, it was fascinating to see the things Muggles had come up with in an attempt to get around not having magic, and some of the items were quite bizarre. With his parents in tow however, he had to remain within three meters of his father, and ten of his mother or else a warning at the Ministry would go off and Aurors would descend to arrest any escape attempt.

He had proximity charms on two platinum rings, one on each hand for each of them, to ensure they didn’t accidentally trip the warning, in which case he’d have to explain why the Aurors had to needlessly break the Statute of Secrecy. The number of memory charms that would be necessary for a place as crowded as the museum didn’t bear thinking about. The one for his father was set with an emerald, the one for his mother with onyx. It felt a little odd wearing jewellery, but it was better than the alternative, especially when one of them needed the bathroom.

The resultant need to tail them meant he couldn’t go where he wished when he wished, and often ended up standing near them, bored and waiting while his mother went to great pains to ensure his father absorbed the information on the small plaques by each item or exhibit. He could tell that his father was silently judging all the Muggles around him, but refraining from making comments because, whatever his opinion of them might be, he did not believe them to be deaf. Draco amused himself with the idea of his father getting involved in a Muggle brawl as he had in second year with Mr Weasley in Flourish and Blotts. That particular scenario got him through nearly three galleries.

Despite dressing in Muggle clothing, his parents still looked a little too well dressed for simply visiting a museum, but it would do well for the opera later. Malfoys prided themselves on always being attired not only correctly, but fashionably, and even though they were Muggle clothes that his father wouldn’t be seen dead in, they had to be the very best Muggle clothes that his father wouldn’t be seen dead in.

His mother was in a thick green dress that was so dark it was almost black, whilst Draco, in a grey shawl collar cardigan and darker grey suit was by far the most casual of the party. Muggle women kept glancing at him, sometimes with bemused curiosity, other times with a very distinct ‘come hither’ glint in their eyes, but Draco wasn’t interested. He might not despise them or consider them lesser beings, but that didn’t mean he was about to take up with one. Quite apart from anything else, they’d have absolutely nothing in common, and it was quite boring enough listening to the inane prattle of witches about things he understood, without adding cross-cultural confusion into the mix.

Narcissa had asked for Draco’s help in organising where they ate, and he’d booked them a table at the Savoy for afternoon tea, and then dinner at the Langham before the opera. It was another opportunity to showcase Muggles and their abilities, his mother had said, so he’d chosen places that he deemed to be fairly expensive in their currency.

Between dining, they walked around London, Narcissa taking her husband to see Buckingham Palace and St Paul’s Cathedral, trying to instil in him a sense of appreciation for the sheer amount of manual labour involved for Muggles to create such buildings. Draco knew it had all been lost on his father, however, who deeply resented having to travel everywhere by foot, having refused to set foot on public transport, and unwilling to entrust his life to that of a Muggle taxi driver. Draco rather disliked having to forgo apparition too, but they were visiting parts of London that were simply too busy for a quiet corner to be found for some discrete labour-saving magic.

It was with no small sense of relief that Draco was able to relax into the darkness of the plush chairs at the opera in the evening. The day was nearly over. After the opera, he could finally take his parents back home, and then spend the rest of the night nursing a decanter of Firewhiskey to obliterate the entire experience.

As the orchestra struck up the entre act, Draco allowed a sigh.

 

They were partway into the third act, Cavaradossi pouring his soul into _E lucevan le stele_ , when a fourth presence entered their private box, and Draco felt a spell drift over his shoulder seconds before a slender hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder.

He whipped around, reaching for his wand, and found himself face to face with a wide-eyed Granger, their noses nearly bumping as he whipped around. She looked rattled as she crouched by his shoulder, her pupils massive in the darkness, and her fingers bit into his shoulder.

“Granger? What–?”

“It’s happened – the second murder. Malfoy, we’ve got to go!” Her voice was hoarse with something more than discretion, despite the fact that the Muffliato charm meant no one beyond the box would hear her, and he felt a little chill enter his heart.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Narcissa enquired coolly, having turned in her seat at Draco’s voice, now regarding the woman crouched by the back of her son’s chair with an imperious gaze.

Hermione snatched her hand from Draco’s shoulder as though burned, straightening, but it didn’t show in her expression. “Mrs Malfoy, you need to return home,” Hermione replied with as much politeness as she could muster under Narcissa’s haughty gaze. “We need Draco on the case.”

Draco blinked at her use of his first name. But then it would seem somewhat odd and a little rude to refer to him by his surname before his parents.

“And on whose authority do you act? Barging in on our evening, and into our _private_ box?” enquired Lucius nastily, siding instantly with his wife. He might not have elected to come to the opera, but he’d be damned if some chit of a Mudblood girl was going to tell him what to do. “Have you put traces on us that we haven’t been informed of? Because if so, it is a gross infringement of our liberties, and I shall be having words with my legal representatives.”

Draco frowned at his father’s rudeness, but Hermione beat him to reply.

“The Authority of the Ministry of Magic, Mr Malfoy,” she answered coldly. “Like it or not, your son’s presence is required. That means you must return home; unless you wish to break the laws governing your parole and your wife’s house arrest, which would tie us all up with Aurors for an unnecessary amount of time, and result in your being returned to Azkaban – perhaps accompanied by your wife.”

Lucius looked like he’d been force-fed an entire orchard of lemons. His glare intensified, but he made no reply, his wife’s pale hand suddenly tight around his.

“And no, for your information, the Ministry has not put illegal traces on any of you. I went to collect Draco from his home, and Dilly told me where you were,” Hermione added sanctimoniously.

“ _Dilly?_ ” Lucius loaded all the excess disgust he felt for the situation into two syllables.

“My house elf,” Draco answered his father’s question, surprised that Granger had discovered his house elf’s name given her evident urgency. But then she touted the creatures’ rights; it fitted her M.O. that she would treat them like humans.

There was a frosty silence as Draco stood, his parents glaring at him as he deliberately sided with the dirty blooded witch they hadn’t known he was working with. His father was clearly contemplating exacting retribution on the unwitting house elf that had disclosed their whereabouts, and it made Draco glad his parents couldn’t floo to his home without him to escort them. He wouldn’t say he exactly cleaved to Granger’s cause, but he had never seen the need to treat the creatures as cruelly as his father had, and even his mother considered them mere serfs. Dilly ran his house perfectly to his wishes; there was no question of his father being allowed time to reprimand her.

“Come Mother, Father.” He beckoned.

His parents remained in their seats.

Hermione sighed. “Need I inform you that I have considerable influence over the ruling made by the Re-education Course?” she enquired curtly. “I was instrumental in its design and introduction.”

All three Malfoys blinked – their only concession to their surprise. Draco hadn’t had the faintest clue of Granger’s involvement with the program, although retrospectively it made sense. It was that ridiculous Gryffindor instinct again.

Narcissa stood smoothly, her expression as proud as ever, gazing down her nose at Hermione. “Draco, you may take us home,” she said calmly, the words coming out as though she had made the decision herself, rather than been all but ordered to do so by Hermione. “I am growing tired of this spectacle.”

Hermione stood, arms crossed, as the Malfoys filed past, catching the faint flicker of an apologetic glance that Draco shot her as he followed his parents out into the corridor.

“Malfoy,” she hissed.

He turned at the door.

“I’ll be waiting at your house to take you.”

He nodded and she vanished.

 

Fifteen minutes later Draco materialised in a roar of green flames, stepping onto his hearthrug.

Hermione met his gaze, shooting up from her place on the leather settee before the fire, her own serious and very faintly frightened.

It always felt strange, barging into other peoples’ homes without their invitation, but it was part of the job when working on a team, and she had forced herself to take in every detail of Malfoy’s palatial apartment while she waited in order to calm her fear. The furnishings were an odd mixture of modern and antique that gelled surprisingly well, but there were too many shadows cast by the flickering fire light for her current state of mind to be happy with, and she had grown to abhor the silence, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock before Malfoy had arrived.

Draco regarded her a moment, lit now by the firelight. She was wearing casual Muggle clothes, but the cloak she’d thrown on over them was the wrong way round, the fastenings twisted. She looked disturbed, her eyes not yet wild, but certainly fearful, and it made his stomach drop even lower.

“Where’s your nearest apparition point?”

“The front step.”

She nodded then followed him to the front door, the pair of them shuffling on the wide step before they reluctantly took hands, disappearing as Hermione turned on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta daaaa! I did it!
> 
> So why are the Bulgarian Ministry being so unhelpful? And what's going to come of their decision to wait for the next murder to happen? #suspense  
> I love writing Lucius and Narcissa. I've probably said it before, but that family dynamic, and them as a couple, absolute fascinate me. There's so much to work with!!! And there's much more of that to look forward to (more than just Lucius being a pain).  
> And yes, ending on another sort of cliff hanger. ^^
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	10. House Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crime scene yields horrifying revelations, and Hermione has a visit from an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this one is relatively graphic at the crime scene (it gets a bit gory)

They both staggered as they landed on the rain slicked cobblestones of a laneway, grasping onto one another to steady themselves. Hermione quickly disengaged herself from Malfoy, and turned, leading the way to the scene with hurried footsteps.

Draco looked around. They weren’t in London anymore, but in the suburb of some town. The chill in the night air foretold the coming winter, and cast an extra pall of gloom over the scene.

“Where are we?”

“Little Whinging,” Hermione answered without stopping or turning round. “This is where Harry grew up.”

Draco regarded the semi-detached houses they passed as they turned onto a road named Magnolia Crescent. They were small, simple, not at all what he’d expected. Famous Harry Potter, growing up somewhere as mundane as _here_?

He hurried after Granger as she marched down the empty road, the tarmac glittering as the light from the lampposts reflected off the water, and together they turned into another alleyway. This one was much the same as that which they had arrived in – dark and empty, illuminated only by what little moonlight managed to filter down through the fringing of the homeowner to the left’s wisteria along the top of the fence.

Granger led him forwards, and they seemed to pass through a shield of some sort, a hive of activity and lights suddenly revealed, bright enough to make them squint and wince.

Aurors guarded both ends of the alley, the one at their end standing aside to let them pass, and members of the Magical Forensics Squad hurried about, some taking photographs of the scene, their camera bulbs flashing brightly enough to blind them, others muttering incantations over the three bodies lying propped against the fence in the middle of the laneway. Draco had to do a double take to ensure they _were_ actually bodies that he was looking at rather than simply blood-coated viscera. There was so _much_ blood.

“Thank Merlin, you’re here!” Harry breathed as they came to stop by his side. He looked like he’d aged at least a decade since they’d left work the previous day, and it was a wonder any of his hair was still attached to his head. He appeared to have run his hands through it so many times it was practically vertical.

“They struck a day early,” Draco said numbly, his eyes still fixed on the mutilated corpses. Even with the Death Eaters, he had seen nothing like this. His time amongst the Dark Lord’s followers had been largely sheltered, due in part, he assumed, to his mother’s machinations. He had never felt so relieved to have been kept back from the real dirty work. Somehow, if he had known and used the spells that could do this to a body, it would have made now looking at the end result so much worse.

Harry nodded. “I’ve had the Squad check their work on our initial guys – they definitely died on Sunday night. The murderer’s intentionally deviated from the previous pattern – they’re trying to spook us.”

Draco frowned. “What makes you so sure? We could be wrong about it being the same murderer – or they could just not care about the schedule anymore.” The knot that had tightened in his stomach made his words harsh, but he meant them. How could they know anything now?

“The location.” Harry replied firmly. “I was the only wizard living here, apart from one of my neighbours, but she was a squib. My cousin and I were attacked by Dementors that Umbridge sent after me in fifth year in this alley. It’s _supposed_ to get my attention. You’d have to be a hermit not to know I’m the one officially heading this case, and if they’re as reckless and keen to make a grand entrance with their showmanship as we think – and if this doesn’t bear that out then I’m not sure what would – then they’re taunting us.”

Draco nodded, the knot loosening its hold very slightly. He could see the sense in that.

“What’s more, not many people knew the details of what happened that night. My trial wasn’t publicised. Only those at the trial, and people I spoke to about it knew.” Harry sighed. “Dumbledore and Sirius are dead, and no one I told would have shared that information. So it has to have come through either Umbridge or some member of the Wizengamot. And Umbridge is locked up.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “What about your cousin, Harry?”

Harry blew out a deep breath. “Already checked. He’s safe – so are my uncle and aunt. And Mrs Figg. It was a wizarding connection.”

They all exchanged weighty glances, hearts lifting despite the horrific scene surrounding them. This could be their first real lead. Hermione pulled out her wand twisting it in a complicated little gesture with an expression of intense concentration as she formed the magical reminder that was the wizarding version of a knot in one’s handkerchief.

“And the victims?” Draco asked.

The trio moved closer to the bodies, trying not to step in the blood pooling darkly on the ground. It was difficult. The stuff had been splattered everywhere. More covered the fence the corpses leant against, startlingly bright splashes of red that looked fake under the white glare of the lighting spells, and was already congealing there and across the cobbles in a crimson puddle before them, collecting in the drainage channel that ran down the middle of the path.

The letters carved into the victim’s chests were largely illegible for the moment, hidden by the sheer amount of blood and gore covering them, but as the forensics wizards took the last of their photographs, they cleared it away with sweeps of their wands, storing the blood in flasks, and revealing the letters and victim’s faces for the first time. Two women, one man. Their expressions were almost impossible to look at.

“R, E, A,” Harry murmured. “Similar to R.A.B., Hermione?”

Hermione twisted her mouth. “More likely it’s a coincidence.”

There was an intake of breath from Malfoy. “I know him.”

Harry and Hermione stared at Malfoy then at the man in the middle. He was a plump, a good decade or so past middle age, his balding dark hair beginning to grey at the sides, and would have looked a pleasant man in life, if a little weak chinned. His eyes were wide in death, and his expression set in a rictus of agonising pain, mouth open with a long silent scream.

“Who?” Hermione asked softly.

“Mr Parkinson,” Draco replied emotionlessly. “Pansy’s father.” He sighed deeply. “I’ll have to tell her.”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” Harry murmured.

Draco nodded mutely. “He was a Death Eater, you know. Formerly. Only low ranking – I think he joined mainly to keep his family safe. He never really did much that I can remember. Of course, the blood prejudices still ran strongly in his family – Pansy picked them up…well, you know that. But he reformed very quickly after the Dark Lord died, although I’m not sure Pansy has changed so rapidly.”

Harry nodded. “I visited him myself to ensure he was safe to be returned into public without supervision. He actually did very well in the re-education classes.”

Hermione waved her wand at the bodies, conjuring three blankets that fell over the torso of each, restoring some decency to the women, as all three had had their shirts ripped open. The still busy forensics witches and wizards continued to work around them.

“And the others?” Malfoy’s voice was hard, having taken on the particular forced quality he often used when viewing confronting crime scenes. Harry had gotten good at discerning it.

The one on the left was alarmingly similar in appearance to Hermione. Although she was perhaps a few years older, her hair just as wild and bushy, though damp with rain. The woman at the other end was middle aged with ashy blonde hair. Nothing obvious about either of their appearances seemed to tie them to Mr Parkinson.

Harry shook his head. “We don’t know yet.”

“Look at their arms.” Hermione’s voice shook with contained anger and outrage. The forensics wizards had moved on to examining the bodies for further signs of injury, starting with the arms and turning them over, revealing them for the first time.

Dark Marks had been seared into both forearms of each woman, and a second added to Mr Parkinson’s right. Draco hissed as Harry swore.

“No respect,” Hermione spat, blinking hard and shaking slightly, her hands balled in fists by her side, and the tip of her wand sparking.

The men looked sickened.

“At least we know they’re put on against their will now,” Draco said dully.

“But why?” Harry asked, dumbfounded.

Draco turned to him, his expression angry, eyes hard and bright. “They torture their victims to death, Potter. For answers, for punishment, for fun – it doesn’t matter. It _burns_ receiving the Mark; it’s like having coals pressed to your skin until they sear the entire way through your body; you can feel your flesh burning, your bones cracking. The pain boils your blood until it feels like your heart is going to burst from the heat, and you reach a point where you really hope it might, just to make it stop. The moment it starts there’s no stopping the process. Forcing it on someone without their consent _is_ torture. It’s one of the most disrespectful things you can do.” He bit back a further sentence, the muscles in his jaw flickering from the tension he exerted, nostrils flaring as he fought for control. He turned back to the bodies. “The victims are all innocent,” he muttered, then moved away.

“We need to stop this,” Hermione whispered, her expression only sad now.

Harry nodded. He’d been wrong at the Little Hangleton graveyard. They weren’t safe. No one was.

 

Hermione stayed up the rest of the night in Harry’s office, redoubling her efforts to find a cure for the Mark. She couldn’t stand the idea of the victims being buried with the slur of it on their bodies, and she had shouted at the morgue wizards when they protested her order to keep all the branded bodies under stasis spells when she had accompanied them back to the Ministry. The men had argued that the bodies would rot eventually in any case, the disfigured flesh degrading until it wasn’t there to be seen, and that, really, no one would see it once the bodies were buried in any case. It had only been Draco appearing in time to restrain her that had prevented her from cursing the men into slugs.

Malfoy had been surprisingly understanding about the matter, glowering at the morgue wizards and threatening not to hold her back if the bodies were not treated as she wished, before guiding her over to Harry’s personal lift and returning to the office, perhaps fearing she would make good on her threats if he left her alone, having arrived in the middle of her tirade.

Draco had left her settled behind her desk, almost buried in scrolls and books. He hadn’t the heart to tell her she was wasting her time, because part of him agreed with her and very much hoped that she would succeed where he had failed. It came as a shock to him that he believed, without resent, that she of all people had the best chance of doing so. It didn’t matter that bodies decomposed. It mattered that those people had been branded against their will with the mark of the Darkest wizard in history. And it was not right. But he also knew that hope was a callous feeling. It opened the doors to thoughts that would probably be dashed, and set the heart up for more disappointment than low expectations ever could. He had long since learned not to trust it.

 

Fury propelled Hermione through the night, but by next morning her energy was waning and deep purple smudges coloured beneath her bloodshot eyes.

Harry came in at half-past-six to find her doggedly squinting at the book she was nearly lying on, muttering furiously to herself. It went without saying that they would be working that weekend.

“One more sentence…one more line…one…more…word, Hermione!”

“Hermione?” Harry shook her by the shoulder, snapping her out of her trance.

“Harry?” she asked dazedly, her vision sliding in and out of focus.

“Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.”

Hermione blinked, her eyes feeling horribly dry, as did her mouth, then nodded, stopping quickly when it exacerbated the pounding of her head.

Harry sighed. “Right.” He crossed to the filing cabinet, changing the keys to the third lock, and pulling out a drawer filled with potions. He picked through them, returning to her side with a bottle of Vitamix and a Girding Potion, pressing them into her hands. “If the case wasn’t so urgent I would be sending you home to sleep,” he scolded sternly.

Hermione shook her head, stopping to cradle it as her temples thudded with renewed abandon. “Can’t sleep, Harry. Too important.”

“Drink.”

Hermione did. The potions went a long way to reducing some of her weariness, but her body could tell it was still fatigued, whatever she drank. She would pay for this later. “Right,” she sat up straighter, her mind clear now. “What’s the news?”

Harry cleared away the empty bottles, returning to his desk. “I’ll just wait until–”

Malfoy strode in looking like he’d had only marginally more sleep than Hermione, and sat behind his desk.

“Right,” Harry waved his wand at the papers in his bag, and they flew out, arranging and pinning themselves to the case board. “Mr Parkinson we already know about – his Ministry file corroborates Malfoy’s information. His family have pure-blood ideals, and he was a low-ranking Death Eater, joining in the Second Wizarding War, but he quickly renounced Voldemort following his defeat, and has worked hard to earn Ministry trust. He successfully completed his Re-education Classes, and in fact became a guest speaker to help others still struggling with their views.”

Hermione cast Malfoy a sympathetic glance, but his gaze was focused entirely on the board. They all knew he’d gone to break the news to Pansy last night. Neither she nor Harry knew how well Malfoy got along with Parkinson these days, but either way it would have been an awful experience. She sighed slightly. He was too stoic for his own good.

Harry continued. “The young woman was a Muggle-born, Olivia Harris, twenty-eight, and working in Flourish and Blotts with no Dark connections. She was the first witch in her family, and engaged to a Muggle man by the name of Edward Trenton. The Muggle Liaison office is taking care of notifying him and her family of her death.”

Hermione sighed for the poor man, hoping he was aware of his fiancée’s abilities. It would make it much harder to explain the absence of a body to bury, even if a suitably Muggle-safe story could be concocted to explain her murder.

“Because of this I want you to put extra protection spells on your home, Hermione,” Harry eyed his friend sternly to make sure she took note of his order. “With Muggle-borns now officially targets, you need to up your wards.” He turned to Malfoy. “The same applies to you and your parents.”

Draco nodded curtly. His apartment and the Manor were already as well protected as possible, but he would still check the spells when he had time. There was no excuse for carelessness.

“We do not yet have information about the third woman.” Harry frowned a little. “It’s too soon yet for her to have appeared on missing persons lists, so we must wait it out. However, neither Mr Parkinson nor Miss Harris lived near Little Whinging. I have Aurors interviewing their families and friends to establish their usual routines and when they were last seen to ensure that where they were found was indeed not where they would usually be. If that is the case, the murderer is somehow taking their victims to their chosen locations. This raises the question of whether they are taken there by force or willingly. It is likely to be the former, as to a witch or wizard of this strength, the Imperius Curse would be a walk in the park. In the meantime–”

“ _Vare is Herm-own-ninny?! I demand to see her at vunce!_ ”

The angry man’s bellows, his Bulgarian accent thickened with anger, reached them barely seconds before Harry’s office door was nearly broken down, and a furious and anxious Viktor Krum stood in the doorway. His dark eyes swept the room, and landed on Hermione.

“Herm-own-ninny! You are safe!” he crossed the room to her, ignoring the astonished Harry and a peeved Draco, taking her hands in his.

“Viktor!” Hermione gasped.

“I read about the Muggle-born voman killed in the papers this morning!” Krum explained before she could ask about his sudden appearance. “She sounded like you, and I thought – I thought–” he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly.

Hermione was barely visible over Krum’s shoulder, but her co-workers watched as her slender hands came around to rest on his shoulder blades for a moment.

Draco felt something nasty begin to burn in his stomach but ignored the sensation, his glowering eyes fixed on the spectacle of the Bulgarian wrapped around Granger. The burn and the anger were unfamiliar, unexpected, but his mind was focused on considering which would be the best spell to send the man flying to be twisted around the nearest lamppost.

Hermione patted Viktor’s back slightly, and he released her, although his hands remained on her shoulders, his dark eyes peering intently into hers as though to assure himself of her safety.

“I’m OK, Viktor. Honestly.” She smiled widely at him, her cheeks flushed pink. His concern was touching. Even after she’d visited him in Bulgaria, and they’d decided – him somewhat reluctantly – that a long-distance relationship while she was in school wasn’t ideal (not to mention Voldemort freshly returned and looming over the future), they’d remained close friends. Viktor had respected her decision completely, eventually realising that it really was for the best for him as well as her, and he’d never pushed her to reconsider it afterwards. But he was a staunch and caring friend, for all his reserved and brooding exterior.

Hermione had occasionally filled Harry in on their friendship, although they’d both seen fit to keep Ron largely in the dark about it until he’d met Isobel. Ginny would try to push Hermione towards the Quidditch star every now and then, cooing about how intelligent and brooding their kids could be – matchmaking attempts which Hermione always shot down in flames. She blamed Harry for getting engaged to Ginny – it had sent her head spinning on the idea that it was high time Hermione found her man, an idea that Hermione had firmly placed in the backseat of her priorities. It would happen when it happened.

“Are you certain?” Viktor was eyeing her wan complexion, his thick brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “Vot is going on here? I keep reading about murders. I do not like it, Herm-own-ninny.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll explain later – now’s not the best time. Wait for me at my place; I’ll come to you when I can, although it might be a while.”

Krum nodded, his expression grim. “I don’t need to be anyvare, there is no need to hurry.”

Hermione smiled again at him, and Krum turned around, seemingly noticing the two men for the first time.

He stuck out his hand to Harry. “Potter.”

Harry shook it with a nod and a strained smile. “Krum.”

Viktor glanced at the wall of information. “You are in charge of this case. These murders.”

Hermione glanced anxiously at Harry. His answer would determine how much she could tell Viktor later.

Harry nodded.

Krum lifted his chin in acknowledgement, turning his gaze to Draco, and his eyes narrowed in assessment. “You’re a Malfoy,” he said accusingly.

“Yes,” Draco replied haughtily.

Krum’s eyes flickered back to Hermione, and then to Harry, and back to her again. It was clear he was suddenly less all right with the idea of leaving her. “Be careful, Herm-own-ninny,” he said seriously, glowering at Draco, and then he slouched out.

Hermione waited a few moments after the door had closed, then turned back to Harry and Draco.

“Sorry about that,” she smiled weakly. “Viktor can get a bit protective after all that’s happened.” He really hadn’t appreciated her dropping off the grid when she’d been hunting horcruxes with Harry and Ron. That had almost been another international incident in itself.

“Understandable,” Harry replied, then returned to the case. “Now–”

Draco tuned out the rest of Potter said. There was a peculiar ringing in his ears, and anger surged around in him in accompaniment to that nasty burn that had begun when Krum had hugged Granger. It was like having violent food poisoning. He could feel his vitals clenched in the prickly hot grip of something beyond his control, but only let the flicker of his eyelid betray any acknowledgement of the sensation. He would have to mix himself a tonic when he returned home. Food poisoning now was not ideal. It must have been something he had in that Muggle restaurant – Dilly’s cooking had never upset his stomach. He decided he didn’t like the Bulgarian, no matter how good a Seeker he was. There was something not quite right about the man. Trust Granger to be a fool and see good where there was none.

“Malfoy?”

Draco jerked out of his sour reverie to see Potter staring expectantly at him. “What?” he snapped.

“I said, meanwhile, because we now know for certain that the murderer is targeting enemies and traitors to Voldemort, we need to start warning potential targets.”

Draco cottoned on, distracted from the acidic swirl of sensation that had taken over his stomach. “I’ll make up a list.”

Harry nodded. “Excellent. We’ll need to keep the warnings subtle though, so no public announcements to the press – you and I will go to see each person together. We don’t want to start a panic, and we don’t want the murderer to know how much we’ve guessed. We’ve been playing catch up this entire case, and I want us to try and get a head start on them, if possible.”

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. “Look, Harry – do you mind if I go and see to Viktor?”

Harry shook his head, much to Draco’s annoyance, smiling. “Go ahead. The work will be waiting for you when you get back. I know it seems impossible, but we’ve got to try and find a way of reversing the Mark – we won’t know how vulnerable the Muggles are until then.”

Hermione smiled in thanks, and rushed back out of the office.

Draco watched her leave with a distinct feeling of discontent, slamming things around on his desk unnecessarily, and grumpily taking a seat before he began to write out names for Potter with a vengeance. His quill tore at the parchment, despite its premium quality and thickness, and he scowled, dotting his i’s so ferociously that the tip of his quill went right through to the blotter.

He’d already been in a bad mood from anxiety and lack of sleep, and to cap everything when he’d eventually returned home last night, after detouring to break the bad news to Pansy, a letter and been waiting from his parents. It had politely but coldly enquired why their evening had been so rudely disrupted, including the injunction that they expected to see him the next day for a full explanation. His mother and father united against him was more than Draco was prepared to deal with at the moment, and he knew they would ask more questions about exactly what he was doing for the Ministry – unwilling to be palmed off with surly remarks about being a consultant. Delaying the confrontation would only make it worse when it eventually occurred, however.

“Potter, my parents are going to want answers.”

Harry glanced up from Hermione’s research on blood magic, having elected to take over that area of the investigation to free her up for her work on the Mark. “How come?”

“I was at the opera with them last night with Granger arrived. They have questions.”

Harry sighed, but nodded. “Answer them. Don’t say more than necessary though – with defected Death Eaters targets for this killer, we don’t want to mark them out even more amongst the rest.”

Draco nodded. The burn of his irritation with Krum had begun to fade, and in its place a sense of anxiety for his parents’ safety had arisen. There were not many defected Death Eaters about, and none as well publicised as his family. His father’s recent release had made the papers, barely eclipsed by the news of the first set of murders, and he didn’t doubt that his family would be on the list for the killer. He shifted in his seat, pulling a clean piece of parchment over and beginning to write a brief letter to his parents.

 

He’d just thrown it into the out tray for the morning post when a silvery mist darted through the ceiling and halted in the middle of the office, reforming into a sleek silver otter standing on its hind legs.

            Draco stared at the patronus. Whatever else it did, it was a beautiful charm. A faint pang lanced through him at the knowledge that he would never be able to cast his own, but he shelved it, as was his habit.

“Harry, Malfoy! Come quickly!” Hermione’s voice came urgent and flustered from the otter’s mouth.

Harry was already on his feet, making for his fireplace. “We’re coming,” he called to the otter, which nodded and vanished. “Come on, Malfoy!”

Draco was hard on Potter’s heels as Harry grasped an exorbitant fistful of Floo powder, throwing it into the fire in a glittering green shower and calling out Hermione’s address before the pair of them ran into the roaring green flames.

They almost cannoned into her on the other side where she was pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of the fire in her front room.

“Harry!”

He seized her arms, eyes boring into hers briefly to ascertain her state before darting to assess the state of the room for indications of disturbance. All was calm. “What happened? Is everything OK?”

Draco stood behind him, wand drawn and raised as he surveyed the room.

“Yes, everything’s fine – Viktor! Viktor knows who the men were!” her voice was high with excitement rather than fear, and she turned to the Bulgarian who had been sitting on her settee, gesturing for him to speak.

“What? Who?” Harry instantly sat in a spare armchair by the fire, his eyes fixed on Krum who was sitting on one end of the settee opposite the fireplace.

Draco reluctantly stowed his wand away, hovering by the fire, unsure. Granger’s home seemed to be a cottage of some sort, with massive darkly stained exposed beams in the walls and high ceiling. It was odd being in such a small house, but it seemed to be comfortably furnished, and there were bookshelves everywhere against the whitewashed walls. Not so much that it felt cluttered, but enough for him to guess that she had amassed an impressive collection. _Typical Granger._

He restrained himself from curling his lip at Krum’s continued presence, and took the armchair on the other side of the hearth with an air of confident assurance, ignoring the glowing amber gaze of Granger’s cat from behind the settee. He vaguely remembered seeing the squashed-faced moggy slinking around the Hogwarts grounds in third year. Ugly thing. Only Granger would _choose_ to have a pet as hideous as that.

Krum sent Malfoy a baleful glance, but ignored his posturing. “I saw the report on their murders, but I did not think it vos important. They vere sympathisers of You Know Who – associates of Karkaroff,” he spat the name of his former headmaster with disgust. “Ve met them on our vay over for the Trivizard Tournament, and they came over on the ship. They vere not actually Death Eaters, but they tried to recruit some of us on the vay.” He glowered. “They said it vos a glorious task to cleanse the vorld of Muggle-borns.” He actually spat this time, the expectoration sizzling in the fire. “They vere idiots, spineless and veak villed glory chasers. They talked of joining You Know Who’s cause, but they vould never haff the courage to join. They vere, how you say? All talk and no pants?”

“All mouth and no trousers,” Hermione amended with a slight smile.

“Yes. That.” Krum affirmed seriously, not in the least put out by her correction. “Their deaths are no loss. I vouldn’t haff mentioned it, but Herm-own-ninny had a file on them here ven I arrived and I saw it.”

Harry sat back, letting out a long, slow breath, thinking. “You’ve been very helpful, Krum. Thank you.”

Krum nodded shortly, looking back up to Hermione who had perched on the arm of the settee while he talked. She gave him a glowing look of gratitude, and his mouth twitched in a very faint smile. Then he was serious again. “Herm-own-ninny says she cannot tell me much about this case you are verking on, Potter,” he said sullenly.

Harry shook his head. “Sorry.”

Krum’s jaw tightened. “Just catch the vitch or vizard doing it.” His tone was grim, and his heavy brows had drawn together again. “I do not like the Dark Arts.” His eyes flickered to Malfoy in the corner once, then he stood and left the room, one hand resting briefly on Hermione’s as he passed.

Hermione tried to ignore the blush that had flushed her cheeks, and turned her eyes firmly on Harry, knowing that if she looked at Malfoy he’d probably give her a smug look and make some sort of deeply inappropriate comment. Ginny was enough. Malfoy would probably also make a comment about how poor her taste was. Ginny at least did her best to rationalise how Krum’s hooked nose might be attractive, and that his duck-footedness and slouch really didn’t detract from his overall looks. Not that looks really bothered Hermione, but Ginny _was_ determined.

“So. What do you think, Harry?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Well, at least we know for certain who their targets are. It doesn’t narrow down whether our murderer is a Death Eater or a new Dark witch or wizard, but we know who to protect. It’s good progress, Hermione. The narrower we can get this the closer we are to catching them.”

Hermione nodded gravely.

Crookshanks slunk out from behind the couch, purring as he rubbed against her shins, before padding over to greet Harry, bottlebrush tail upright behind him and waving with a lordly air. Draco decided he rather liked the creature, even if in appearance it was a hideous travesty of a feline.

Harry gave the imperious cat a friendly scratch behind the ears. “We’d best be getting back to the Ministry. Say thanks, again, to Krum for me. He’s saved us some confusion. I daresay Kingsley will be having words with the Bulgarian Ministry over this.”

Hermione smiled.

“Malfoy?” Harry was standing, looking expectantly at his co-worker. Malfoy seemed to be glued to his chair, locked in some internal discussion, his suit and robes creasing in all the right places and looking thoroughly out of place in Hermione’s front room. He looked like he was posing for a wizarding-wear photoshoot, right down to the superior expression fixed on the doorway Krum had exited through.

Draco was considering exactly what was going to happen the moment he and Potter left Granger with Krum. He didn’t doubt that they were in some sort of relationship, and that unsettled him for some reason. The idea of Krum and Granger together didn’t seem right. What was more, he didn’t like the look Granger had given Krum; the gratitude, the pride, the _smile_. His eyes had been fixed on her the entire time, cataloguing the changes in her expression, all but ignoring the content of the conversation they’d been called there for. That burn had come back, and if he hadn’t been a Malfoy and able to control such unseemly urges, he would have been sick into the fire. He really did need to mix that stomach tonic. But there were other concerns of his mind – more important ones. _Granger._

In his endeavour to relearn her boundaries, as he must do now they worked so closely together, she had become his object of study. They’d never spent much time at such close quarters in the past, and he’d never looked at her much further than to see a blemish and note the weaknesses that he could exploit, but now it came down to it, she had as rich a tapestry of visual and verbal cues as any other. More, probably. Hers came in subtle shades, like the faint blending of white into pastels, and noting them, understanding them, learning what they meant was like solving the puzzle of Granger. And he did not like this new piece that had come into play with Krum’s arrival. He hadn’t seen her look at anyone the way she had looked at Krum. What was more she blushed – she actually _blushed_ – around the Bulgarian, and it made him uneasy, perturbed, although why he couldn’t understand.

“ _Malfoy?_ ” Harry repeated, a little louder this time.

Draco snapped out of his thoughts, turning a hooded gaze on Potter. “What?”

Harry said nothing, only frowned a little. “It’s time to go.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, questioning the advisability of Potter’s suggestion with it. Potter, clearly a dullard when it came to the subtleties of body language, didn’t seem to understand his message however, turning to Granger once more.

“We’ll see you back at the office.”

Hermione nodded, eyeing Draco. He was behaving oddly, or at least, more oddly than usual. It was normal for Malfoy to be close mouthed and impassive, but there was an extra intensity to his gaze today that was a little unnerving. Doubtless he had preoccupations of his own to deal with, especially after the encounter she’d had with his parents last night, not to mention having to speak to Pansy.

“Bye,” she murmured.

Harry nodded, taking a pinch of Floo powder, and shouting for the Ministry.

Draco rose gracefully to his feet, and remained by the mantle for a few moments after Potter had disappeared, his eyes locked with Granger’s, not entirely sure what he was trying to communicate.

There was a strident _roow_ from his feet and he glanced down to see the cat seated there, staring up at him with an expression that was halfway between expectant condescension and assessment. Draco raised an eyebrow, returning the look. _Inspected by a cat. Trust Granger to have a weird pet._ He lifted his eyes to hers once more.

“Granger.”

And then he was ducking until the lintel, the flames whipping him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY HOW LONG IT'S BEEN.  
> Long story short - assignment season happened, then Christmas and New Years I was away. But now I'm back! Happy New Year! And this is a chapter that I really enjoy.
> 
> DARK MARKS. Oooooh. Very curious to see what you all think of them and what they mean.
> 
> Also, I do have a soft spot for Krum respecting Hermione's desire not to be together, and still liking her, but just being a good friend. Even better than that though...Draco is jeaaaalousssss. Hehehehe. *rubs hands together evilly*  
> My favourite scene has to be when he has to leave Hermione's house at the end.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
> https://twitter.com/jtomkinsauthor  
> http://jzj-tomkins.tumblr.com/


	11. Loggerheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco just can't catch a break.

Hermione followed Harry and Malfoy back to the Ministry within the hour after settling things with Viktor. He would stay for a few days, saying he would Floo back for some clothing and other necessary items, unwilling to yet leave her despite her assurances. He was deeply suspicious of Malfoy, averse to let go of his Death Eater past as yet, and concerned for Hermione’s safety. Hermione had decided not to argue the point with him; he could be as stubborn as her when he had a mind to be, and she really didn’t want to waste time disagreeing over a moot point.

Despite all her reassurances that she was perfectly safe, Hermione could not deny that she was pleased and somewhat relieved that Viktor was staying. They hadn’t seen each other in a while, and it was nice to know that he cared about her well-being enough to go to the lengths that he had. Truth be told, it would also be a nice change to have some company in the evening. She was a little concerned that he would get bored, cooped up in her house all day however, but he knew how to get to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, and she’d shown him on previous occasions how to work the television, even though he regarded the object with a degree of suspicion like most wizards. Viktor had assured her that he would be far from bored, indicating her extensive bookshelves, and that staying in her home for a few days would be a welcome reprieve as his fans in Bulgaria were currently going through a particularly persistent phase.

When she’d told him enough information about her part of the case for him to guess what might be helpful, he’d put through a Floo call to a contact of his and sourced her a few books on Dark magic by Bulgarian authors that she hadn’t heard of, most of which dated to Grindlewald’s time, and she returned to the Ministry with them under her arm.

Only Malfoy was in the office, sitting with a moody expression behind his desk, checking through his papers.

Draco had mixed a tonic to quell the prickle in his belly, but it had done nothing to assuage the hot flushes that boiled through him whenever he let his mind return to the situation between Granger and Krum, and it was irritating him in the extreme. The scowl he was turning on his papers ought to have turned them to ash.

Hermione offered him a tentative smile, ready to meet his eyes when he looked up as she slipped around the door. “Where’s Harry?”

“Meeting with the Minister,” Malfoy replied tersely, not even looking up at her.

Draco was seething for no discernible reason. It wasn’t that he had to work on a Sunday – in fact he had become quite accustomed to giving up his weekends when he was first setting up his companies – but this Sunday was turning out even more rotten than it had initially promised to, and he did not like how it had done so. Granger had been with Krum nearly an hour. An _hour_. And he had no intention of being anything more than barely civil to the woman.

Hermione frowned slightly. Malfoy really was behaving quite oddly today. But then it was a Sunday. He’d probably had plans that had been disrupted by the unexpected murders, and he was new to this kind of work. He hadn’t been to the crime scene of the first group murder, and although she didn’t doubt that he’d seen some horrendous things while Voldemort had lived in his home, facing up to a crime scene as bloody as that when one of the victims was the father of a girl you had been friends with couldn’t be pleasant for anyone.

She shrugged, and went to her desk.

“Viktor thought of some books that might help,” she said as she pulled them out, turning and proffering them to Malfoy for a look in case they meant anything to him.

Draco’s lip curled at the mention of the Seeker, but his face was impassive by the time she turned to him. He allowed a brief glance at the unfamiliar titles, shrugged, and returned to his work.

“Hopefully they’ll be useful,” Hermione continued doggedly, her tone determinedly light and cheerful.

Draco grunted.

Hermione held in a sigh, and gave him up as a bad job. If it had been Harry or Ron she would have asked what was bothering them, but he was Malfoy. Clearly he wanted to wallow and be cross, and he was already resenting her intrusion.

She opened the books, waving her wand in a complex motion that allowed her brain to translate the Bulgarian as she read it, and began to read.

 

Draco’s poor mood continued throughout the rest of the day, and was only exacerbated when Granger left for lunch with Krum in Diagon Alley. Potter had returned by then, looking as stressed as they all felt, and with the news that none of the surviving members of the Wizengamot that had sat on his trial in fifth year had spoken of the matter to anyone or been attacked within the time period for the murders. It was depressing news, given that it had been one of their most promising leads, and Granger had left shortly after, so there was little more Draco could do than angrily straighten his papers as he and Potter continued to work and eat in silence. For all his distemper, he’d not rejected her request to take over the Arithmancy and Rune work entirely to let her focus better on finding a cure for the Mark.

He kept checking his watch, marking every ten minutes that she had been absent, grumbling internally to himself, his expression darkening to the point where even Harry could see it would be foolish to speak to him.

By the time Granger returned and they went to train later in the afternoon, his mood and deteriorated even further.

Hermione did her best to be understanding. She knew next to nothing about Malfoy’s daily life. He could have any number of issues to be dealing with at home. She might have been one of the very few he had ever allowed into his mind, perhaps even the _only_ person he’d ever let into his mind, and she had a unique insight into him because of it, but that didn’t mean she instantly understood every aspect of him and his behaviour. He wasn’t the sort to invite confidences, or the sort you casually chatted to about how the weekend had been, so who he was beyond work was completely shut off to her. For all she knew he went to the opera every night, and was a moonlight cubist painter, or else really enjoyed rap music and skateboarding; he could do anything for leisure and she wouldn’t have a clue about it.

She could trust him and work with him, and there were times when she thought she could even be friends with him, but his behaviour today was trying her patience in the extreme. It was ordinary for him to be tacit in his remarks, to only speak when he considered it absolutely necessary, and to wear a permanent mask of inscrutability. But she had seen his grins and smiles, she’d heard him laugh, and even make jokes. He wasn’t just the cold front that he presented in public. The Malfoy she duelled today was none of that. He was snippy, scowling, and if pushed too far would make remarks that verged on spiteful.

“OK, stop!” Hermione put up her wand, crossing her arms and glaring at Malfoy across the moving staircases that were their terrain today, a more complex emulation of those at Hogwarts.

Draco slowly lowered his wand, wary of a ruse, his eyes narrowed. “What, Granger?” he snapped. “It’s been barely half an hour.”

“I’ve had enough of your behaviour today. I’ve tried to understand it, I’ve tried to accommodate it, I’ve tried to help get you out of whatever rut you’ve stuck yourself in, but this is it! Either tell me what’s wrong so we can work through it, or put it to one side for the day. You’re being downright unpleasant.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, the grey hardening to silver. “I don’t recall making any undertaking to be _pleasant_ ,” he replied coldly. “And I don’t recall inviting you to take an interest in my business. How about the part where I never asked you for help or understanding?” he snarled, rising up as the staircase he was on shifted.

“Well what else do you expect me to do when you’re giving an impression of being a bad tempered porcupine?” Hermione demanded angrily, irritated that the staircases had put her lower than him.

“It’s _my_ business! I didn’t ask for your interference!” Draco shot back, his voice rising to echo on the stone walls around him, his blood boiling with irrational anger. “We’re not friends in case you hadn’t noticed, Granger,” he added viciously.

“Well you’d better get used to interference in _your business_ because that’s what happens when you work with people instead of dictate to them!” Hermione bellowed back, ignoring his remark about friendship despite the sting, the staircases shifting to lift her above him now. “That’s what happens when you’re colleagues with people. You’re not in an isolated bubble! The way you behave has an effect on us – you can’t expect me not to want to do something about it when it makes you behave like this! If you scowled anymore you’d turn into a gargoyle!”

“Well what about the way _you_ behave, Granger?” Draco snarled savagely, his mind darting to Krum, anger rising with the image of him like a blistering wave in his stomach.

Hermione frowned, nonplussed. “What do you mean, Malfoy?”

Draco snarled wordlessly, turning away.

“I’m not finished!” Hermione called, racing up the steps after him to leap across the void between the staircases as they swung past each other, landing at the top of his and rushing down after him.

Draco abrupted stopped, rounding on her as Granger skidded to a stop behind him. “Well _I_ am!”

They were almost nose to nose, Hermione on the step above Malfoy, and they glared into each other’s eyes, level for once, panting.

Their proximity was doing odd things to Draco, his anger being overtaken with something else that was quite foreign. She smelled damp and fresh, like beeswax and flowers after rain, the sweat curling her hair into fine ringlets across her brow and about her ears. He could see the individual droplets that had gathered on her skin, darkening her eyebrows and collecting in the bow of her lips and the base of her throat, the trails that they made from the nape of her neck glinting and running down over her collarbones and into the scoop of her singlet. He could study, up close, the fire that the frustration brought into her eyes, bright and scorching as she tried to find out what his problem was, lighting up something in him that wanted to respond, and not with anger. The familiarity of her and the unfamiliarity of the emotions and observations she inspired unsettled him, and he ripped away before Granger could even open her mouth.

Hermione remained where Malfoy left her, rooted to the spot by strange sensations she hadn’t felt in years, and others that she’d never felt before at all.

Viktor still made her blush like a schoolgirl. He’d been the first boy to show such marked interest in her, to admit that she was the person he would miss most in the world when he’d only known her a few weeks. That kind of feeling didn’t simply go away. But that was all there was between them; a giddy, exhilarated passing dart of infatuation. They’d tried for more, but the timing hadn’t been right. Maybe, if it had, she could have learnt what it was to be in love, truly in love, rather than mere attraction, but they hadn’t had the chance. With Ron it had been different again. Friendly affection that had deepened to more, but become confused until they both realised things were best between them when they were friends. While she loved him as a sister, that was the end of it. Romantically they weren’t suited.

Now echoes of those feelings were returning along with new ones that she had no understanding of and was too wary to examine closer, all of them jumbled and confused, mixed up with her anger and bewilderment from her confrontation with Malfoy. She didn’t understand it. Or him. If he wasn’t so weird about opening up and appearing vulnerable she might at least be able to begin understanding, but no, he had avoided talking through his problem and chosen to argue instead like most boys. _Confused prat._ He made her insides flutter, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she knew what that meant. But there was no time for acting on or even the consideration of such things. She sighed, frowning at his retreating figure.

He couldn’t actually go anywhere, not while they were in the S.T.E. – the simulation would just keep bringing him back to the central arena. But she could tell there was little point in their continuing training for the day, and if she trapped him in the simulation he would only get angrier. She lifted her wand, dismissing the spell, and as the stone walls and staircases faded, she could see Malfoy striding off across the arena, making for the stairwell.

 

Draco determinedly ignored Granger for the rest of the day. He didn’t look at her, he didn’t speak to her, and he certainly did not think of her. Or so he had planned. He snuck glances at her across his arm when she wasn’t looking, his mind dwelling on their confrontation and the weird morass of feelings inhabiting his stomach in an incomprehensible tangle. He prided himself on understanding these things, of his control over his deportment and emotions. He had let that slip earlier.

Malfoys did not simply lose control. They were cool, calm, collected – impassive. They should be looked upon as ice sculptures; elegant and glittering, above ordinary folk in their intelligence, bearing, and station. He had shattered that image today.

He’d shattered it before, when he’d lost his nerve to kill Dumbledore, and when he’d given in to the fears haunting his every move in the bathroom and Potter, _Potter_ , his school time enemy had been the one to discover him, shaking with fear and _crying_. But this was different. There was nothing to push him to such an extreme this time, and yet he was being affected. It unnerved him that whatever this was, this pulling itch he had about Granger, could break his composure so effortlessly. Such habits should not be disrupted easily. He had spent his life cultivating them, honing them until they occurred effortlessly and without thought on his part. But now they were slipping through his fingers like draining sand.

He blamed it on the Legilimency. There was no other explanation for it. He had granted her access to his deepest self, and now some part of her had lodged in him and try as he might he simply could not eject her from his thoughts. He doubted that the same was happening to her. After all, _he_ hadn’t been into _her_ mind. The imbalance soured his expression. Regardless, they had some kind of a connection now – he hesitated to think of the word _bond_ – and he had no intention whatsoever of humouring it.

His decision was a simple one. To ignore the itch. To deny the pull. It was dangerous and unpredictable – an unknown that he could not yet control.

He glanced over at Granger again. She was immersed in her research, reading those new books the Bulgarian had given her. He repressed a silent sneer at the idea that they might help, but couldn’t help but admire her tenacity. She had admitted herself that what she was doing was in all likelihood a lost cause, and yet it didn’t stop her from ploughing on with it. But perhaps that was simply pig-headedness – if he knew anything about Granger it was that she was certainly not short of that particular attribute. She was obdurate and unyielding, and he could tell that determination was what made her strong. He should disparage her single-mindedness – it was causing her problems that recognition of the impossibility of the task she had set herself would sweep away, but, try as he might, he could not think poorly of her for it.

Draco forced his eyes back to his own work. Clearly his resolution would be harder to cleave to than he had initially anticipated. He frowned, fixing his eyes firmly on the words before him even though his brain was not yet engaged enough to understand them. _I will not look. I will not._

Hermione’s attention was divided.

She wasn’t happy that she and Malfoy had argued, or that he seemed to have decided to ignore her because of it. It was a childish solution to the problem that left it open and unresolved. If it became detrimental to the case it would be her fault, and there could be nothing to set them back – they faced enough obstacles without ones of their own creation. She should have known better than to take him to task on the matter, but she’d felt a kind of comradeship growing between them from their training sessions, and perhaps being let into his mind had given her a false sense of security about how she could talk to him. She had talked to him as she would to a friend, with too much truth, and now she could easily see how foolish she had been. They weren’t friends. They were colleagues, and colleagues with a difficult history. Colleagues who used to be enemies.

Hermione sighed, turning a page, and trying to avoid the detailed description of a curse that made the victim’s finger and toe nails grown inwards. However else Malfoy might have changed in the intervening years, it seemed that he was determined to remain reserved – cool and cut off from others, and that frustrated her more than anything else. She knew he was not that. She knew there was more to him than his implacable façade. He had a heart beating behind the shell as capable of passions as any other. She was used to men not wanting to talk about their problems or their feelings, used to teasing it out of them, but Malfoy almost seemed to have a violent reaction against such displays of what she supposed he considered to be vulnerability and weakness.

She refrained from tutting irritably at the thought, an image of Lucius Malfoy swimming before her eyes. It was all about the conditioning. Of course the son would emulate the father. She frowned. _Men. Told to be too damn stoic for their own good…and too stubborn to admit otherwise. Think they have to have hearts of stone. Pah! They are no more untouchable than any person is invulnerable._

She made a note of a spell to do with bloodletting, glancing surreptitiously over to Malfoy before sighing again, shaking her head slightly and returning to the book.

 

Draco left the Ministry early, flooing directly to the Manor. He wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with his parents, but the sooner it was over, the better; such things did not diminish with the passage of time.

His mother was waiting for him in the sitting room, and his father soon joined them, sitting beside Narcissa, the two of them united in their disapproval.

“Explain yourself,” Lucius ordered curtly.

Draco frowned slightly, but reined in his temper. It would not do to start by shouting at his father. “I am not merely consulting for the Ministry this time – I am an active member of the case,” he began levelly.

“And what is this case?” Narcissa asked calmly, laying a restraining hand upon her husband’s, purposefully interlinking her fingers with his.

“It involves the murders that have been in the papers recently. The seven individual killings, and now the group murders. Our evening was interrupted last night because a second group had been killed.”

Narcissa nodded slowly, taking it in.

Lucius snorted. “The Ministry is weak,” he sneered. “They won’t solve it.”

Draco’s eyes flashed for a moment, but he said nothing, his jaws clamped together.

“Lucius…” Narcissa murmured the rebuke.

Lucius continued as though his wife had not spoken, “And this _case_ involves that Mudblood?”

Draco and Narcissa’s voices melded in a combined exclamation of disapproval and reprimand, “ _Father!_ ” “ _Lucius!_ ”

“I will not hear you call her that!” Draco snarled.

“Does the Ministry’s influence reach so far that a man may not speak his mind within his own home without being scolded by his son?!” Lucius spat, the fragile control that had been restraining his ever volatile temper now broken. “What happened to make you side with blood traitors and scum?”

“You will not use that word, Lucius,” Narcissa interjected warningly before Draco could lash out with a scathing rejoinder. “Not if you wish to remain out of Azkaban. You need to remember that!”

“Azkaban! Azkaban! Can I not make a single move nor voice a single word without some person or other holding the threat of that place over my head?!” Lucius raged, his eyes haunted by the shadows of his nightmares, aggravation rather than fury overtaking his expression. “Is it not enough to have gone there? To have served my time in that cesspool without being constantly reminded of it with threats to return?! Can I not even be afforded the opportunity to _try_ to leave it behind?!”

“You can leave it behind when you abandon your blood prejudices, Father.” Draco said coldly. “I have forsaken your beliefs. I have learned to think for myself, and I have my own principles now. If you cannot do the same then I will have no choice but to report your continued attitudes to the Ministry.”

Narcissa let out a gasp of horror. Lucius was on his feet in an instant however, ripping his hand from his wife’s, enraged betrayal in his expression.

“You dare threaten me, _boy_?! You dare turn on your own father?!”

Draco joined him on the carpet, his anger surging and rising in response to his father’s, writhing out of his control, and he realised for the first time that, tall as his father was, he now outstripped him. “Turn on a father who all but abandoned me to the tender mercies of a creature without morals – a _monster_ without mercy?!” he roared, his voice cracking as the tide of his past rose up to swamp him. “I was a teenager! I wasn’t even seventeen. A _boy_ – not yet of age! And you, your quest for glory, your blind devotion to his doctrines, you would rather cleave to that than protect the life of your only son! You spent your life enslaved to him and you would have seen me do so as well! It would be a grave betrayal indeed for a son to turn on his father if there were something for me to betray! You betrayed me then; you don’t have my trust! You forfeited the right to it when you let him brand this into me!” Draco ripped up his sleeve, thrusting his Dark Mark forwards. The edges were still inflamed, and it seemed a few shades darker than normal, but no one was examining it.

Narcissa let out a little gasping kind of sob. She had watched her husband and son begin the fight with a heavy heart, knowing that an argument had been coming since the day Draco decided to turn his back on the beliefs of his ancestors. She had been waiting for it the moment Lucius returned home. But she hadn’t expected _this_. Families such as theirs did not rake up the past. Resentments were left to simmer and putrefy, not faced head-on. One was meant to maintain the façade – to carry on as though a heart was merely another organ that kept you alive, not something to sustain emotional damage.

“I was in Azkaban!” Lucius bellowed, his own façade of anger beginning to crack, his true emotions seeping through into his eyes. “I didn’t intend to fail the Dark Lord! I didn’t _intend_ to be captured by the wretched Order and sent there! What would you have had me do when he ordered me to retrieve the prophecy? Refuse the Dark Lord? You know as well as I Draco that it would have meant the death of us all! Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t have done anything else if I could have? I took the only choice I had to keep us all alive!”

“AND IT NEARLY MADE ME A MURDERER!” Draco screamed. “I WAS SIXTEEN, AND I HAD TO PLOT TO MURDER MY HEADMASTER!” He shook his head, eyes wide and staring, beyond all control now. It felt good to let the hurt come out from the cracks in his damaged soul, all the dark, knotted up poison that had bubbled like acid in his guts for so many years was at last being evacuated. But what had begun as a leak had risen to a gushing torrent that wouldn’t stop until it was all out. “I had to betray the safety of the people I went to school with when I let you into the castle. I didn’t care for them, but do you know what it is like making that decision?” he whispered. “Do you?! Do you know what it’s like making a single decision that means you’re responsible for every death and injury that happens after it? I had to let you all in so you could kill _children_. Don’t think I didn’t see the bodies. Don’t think I wasn’t aware what was going on. I knew what would happen. _Death Eaters don’t stun._ I tried to block it out to make it easier, but I knew I was letting in murderers to a _school_. I knew that people – kids and my teachers – would die that night. I knew that if I didn’t have the courage to say no to _Him_ that I would be throwing their lives for him to grind into the ground like insects beneath his feet. And I did it anyway.”

Narcissa’s hands were to her mouth, and she was rocking back and forth silently as the tears slid down her cheeks.

Draco forced himself not to look at her. He had never spoken about any of this to anyone. His mother had sometimes broached the topic of the past with him, but he had always shrugged her off, and she, knowing her son, and allowed it.

“You took the choice you had to in order to survive,” Lucius replied harshly, breathing heavily but no longer shouting.

Draco stared at his father with disbelieving eyes. “I let other people die instead of me. That’s what I chose. That’s what I allowed. Because I was too scared to say no. I was too worried about saving my own sorry hide to protect the lives of hundreds of innocents. I wasn’t Harry Potter – I _couldn’t_ sacrifice myself for any of them because I didn’t care enough.” He shook his head. “I was _sixteen_. What kind of parent puts their child in that situation?”

“I told you, we had no other option,” Lucius snarled between gritted teeth. “You know that! From Azkaban I could do nothing. The Dark Lord–”

“YOU COULD HAVE GONE TO THE ORDER BEFORE IT GOT TO THAT POINT!” Draco bellowed, fury in him now. He had thought about the circumstances leading up to his sixth year so many times now he was sure he had considered every possible outcome. And he was not sure whether he could forgive his father. “YOU COULD HAVE RUN! YOU COULD HAVE UNBENT YOUR PRIDE ENOUGH TO RESCIND YOUR BELIEFS AND SAVE YOUR FAMILY FROM YOUR INSANE LEADER! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A COWARD!”

“AND HE WOULD HAVE KILLED US ALL,” Lucius roared back, his usually pale face now crimson. “Do you honestly believe that Dumbledore’s _Order_ could have protected us?” he sneered. “They couldn’t even protect themselves or _him_! I did what I had to do, boy, and you should be grateful.”

Draco shook his head, unable to believe his ears. Had his father heard nothing that he’d said? “I am no longer a boy, Father,” he fought the tremble of anger in his voice, “though I remain your son. I do not threaten – I warn. There is no room for those beliefs anymore. If you continue you in them you leave me no choice but to go to the Ministry. And you will not insult my colleagues.”

 “I will insult whom I choose!” Lucius snarled back. “You belittle your ancestors and your blood by speaking so! You betray the family from which you come, and yet you behave as though working with filth such as her is not the basest of insults! How is it that I have lived long enough to see my own son so _weak_ , my family’s line destroyed?!”

“It is no insult to work with her, Father!” Draco lifted his voice a new notches to carry over his father’s, anger of a different kind beginning to fill him. He was calm fury now. “Hermione outstripped all the students of Hogwarts – regardless of their blood status – and I am certain that without her involvement on this case we would stand little chance of succeeding.” Draco felt a savage pleasure lift in his chest at the shocked expression that crossed his father’s hate-twisted features when he spoke Granger’s first name. _Hermione._ Her name was like a talisman. “She is more intelligent than most pure-bloods can claim to be and was strong enough to overlook our history together – something I never expected her to do. Something I had no right to expect her to. She treated you both with respect even though she was tortured in this house by a member of _this_ family. I expect the very least from you in return. And,” he delivered his final blow with a kind of savage joy, “if your legacy is to have a son who puts paid to the Malfoy blood-prejudice at last, then I am proud to _weaken_ the line and destroy that most poisonous inheritance from my ancestors.”

Draco turned, leaving his dumbstruck father where he stood.

“Good night, Mother,” he said tersely as he passed.

Narcissa nodded, blinking tears from her eyes, and summoning her strength. “Good night, Draco. Thank you for explaining.”

Draco nodded brusquely, continuing to the door. He paused there, halfway into the corridor, then turned back. “I came tonight to explain. And to warn you. Defected Death Eaters are targets for the murderer,” he paused a moment. “I will check the wards before I leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO! That's a tick on the regular updating schedule! Let's hope March gets a tick too!
> 
> This is absolutely one of my favourite chapters. I cried writing it, I still tear up reading it. Just UGH. DRACOOOO 


	12. The Age-Old Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stressed and aggrieved by life, Draco turns to old coping mechanisms.

At home, Draco found three letters waiting for him in his study. He wanted nothing more to obliterate the entire day from his mind for good. First Granger and Krum, then their argument, and now this…whatever it was that had happened at the Manor. He poured out a generous measure of Ogden’s best and returned to the letters.

With a heavy sigh, he squinted at them, the compulsion of a businessman forcing him to attend to them, loosening his robes and easing into his desk chair. He recognised the handwriting on all three, scowling, and snatched up the most innocuous.

 

_Drake,_

_Dude, where have you been? You missed Quidditch today, and when I came to your place your house elf said you were out. Hope nothing’s gone wrong with the business. Either way you work too hard, mate._

_If you get this today I’ll be at_ Philtre _tonight if you want to join._

_Zabini_

 

Draco groaned. He had completely forgotten to owl Zabini to let him know he couldn’t make it to their Quidditch match that morning. _Great. Another explanation to make._ And this time he couldn’t tell much. Potter had let him give his parents the sketchiest of details, but Zabini was a different story. And Zabini had no scruples about prodding for more information. The damn git was far too nosey for his own good. But then he was a Slytherin.

He dropped his forehead to his desk with a thunk. Why did life have to be so complicated? And why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut at the Manor? His father would be furious he knew, his mother would probably still be crying, and oddly enough, he wasn’t sorry for a bit of it. Their decisions had made a hell of his later teenage years. They had never discussed it, partly because that was not what families like theirs did, partly because he had not wished to hurt his mother, and partly because Draco had always known that such a topic would only lead to a flaming row and too many unvarnished truths. But then perhaps that was what had been needed. He certainly felt better for it, and there wasn’t even the faintest shard of guilt to make him regret what he’d said.

_Dammit, can’t life be simple just once?_

With a groan, and the resolution to try and meet up with Blaise later in the week, he lifted his head only to be confronted with the other two letters. The first was from Granger, the second, his mother. He might have defended Granger to his parents earlier, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry with her. Her and Krum… He dropped the tumbler with a clunk that left a dent in the wood of his desk. He’d had more than enough of Granger and Krum. And as for his mother… _Merlin, why? What did I do to deserve this?_

He glared at the letters for several long moments, making his way through the rest of the tumbler before he was willing to even touch them.

He picked up the latter.

 

_Draco,_

_I must apologise on your father’s behalf. He has not been himself since Azkaban, and he finds the restraints placed upon him hard to deal with. I hope that with time he will reconcile himself to them. His aggravation makes him ill-disposed to patience or tolerance._

_Though we have never spoken of the matters that you raised, please let me assure you that we never wished to place you in such a situation. Please believe me when I say that I tried my hardest to free you of it. Your father and I have always tried to act with your best interests in mind, and although our decisions have brought you grief and troubles, they were not made with ill intent. I do hope that we can talk further on this._

_Although I do not hold your father’s exact sentiments towards Miss Granger, I cannot say that I am pleased to hear that you are working with her. I must confess that although I do not mind Muggles, or the idea of Muggle-borns, your associating with one causes me some distress. Especially considering the past that you share. You yourself have admitted that it has not been exactly amiable. Please do not antagonise her in any way. With your father experiencing the difficulties that he is, we cannot afford to alienate someone with such power of his future as she._

_I am most concerned about what you said about former Death Eaters being targets. We have been much in the papers since your father’s release, and I hope the Ministry will take appropriate cautions._

_We shall see you on Tuesday._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Mother_

 

Draco was torn between sighing and crumpling up the letter to throw into the fire. There were too many things in the missive that he had issues with. After all that had just passed between them, how could she write to him so composedly? He understood why his parents had made the decisions they had, but it didn’t make it easier for him to forgive them. And if his mother still had reservations about Muggle-borns when it came to interacting with them, how on earth could his father succeed at even thinking well of them?

_Let him flounder._

At that moment he couldn’t care less. There was the possibility that he and his parents were on the hit list of a murderer they couldn’t even guess the identity of, what they thought they knew about the murderer was mostly speculation, and there was every chance that they would strike again before the Ministry found anything more; his father getting over his blood prejudices really didn’t figure as important when compared to that.

Draco eyed Granger’s letter, refilling the tumbler and slowly sipping his way through it.

He’d guessed that she’d gotten his address from Potter or the training forms, so he wasn’t entirely surprised that she’d managed to find his home last night or that her letter had been delivered – he’d adjusted the wards on his fireplaces the night he’d signed the contract and the Floo Network Authority had connected the Ministry to his home – but he eyed her neat, narrow writing all the same, his gaze fixed on the flourishes on the D of ‘Draco’ and the F and Y of ‘Malfoy’. There was something nice about the way she shaped them.

He shook himself, eyed the letter again, then dropped the tumbler and picked the letter up.

 

_Malfoy,_

_Viktor and I were talking and it reminded me about your parents. I know you have asked them for any information they might have about unaccounted for Death Eaters, and who might be a likely suspect out of those witches and wizards we know to have blood prejudices, but I thought it might be a good idea to ask them about Dark Magic – especially the Dark Mark. The headway I’ve made isn’t helping much, and they might be able to offer a new perspective, or mention something that could help._

_Harry has been trying to question some of the Death Eaters in Azkaban when he goes there to see if any of them can cast the Mark, but none of them are being very helpful. The Carrows are too stupid, Rookwood only spits insults, Avery declares he knows nothing, McNair has tried but can’t, and Yaxley just stares at Harry. I’m quite sure that Dolohov might be able to shed some light, but it’s too dangerous to bring him out of the magically induced coma._

_I thought I might arrange a meeting with your parents, if possible? You are quite knowledgeable, and I remember you mentioning that the Manor has an extensive library. It might be that there is a book in there that we’ve missed._

_Kind regards,_

_Hermione_

 

Draco stared at the letter, clutching it hard enough to rip in two.

What she said made sense, if there was any way possible of his parents ever speaking to her in a way that was halfway civil, but he had blotted out the rest of her letter after reading the first few words of her opening sentence. _Viktor and I_.

Visions of them sharing her cosy settee before the fire filled his mind, their heads tilted towards each other, murmuring endearments, and of her smiling at Krum in that way that made him want to punch holes in walls, and Granger’s house had not seemed large enough to have a guest room.

Draco tossed the letter aside, downing the rest of the Firewhiskey in one gulp, and got to his feet, making for his doorstep. A visit to _Philtre_ with Blaise was exactly what he needed right now.

 

“Draco! Mate, I didn’t think you were going to make it!” Blaise clapped Draco on the back as they neared one another, momentarily dragging his attention away from the pretty blonde witch he had been talking to at the bar.

“Blaise,” Draco greeted, somewhat more reservedly. The music in this place really was too loud. “Sorry about the match – something came up at work.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, but made no comment. He turned back to the waiting blonde. “I’ll catch up with you later, darlin’,” he purred, giving her a long kiss and watching her appreciatively as she trotted off with a giggle.

Draco rolled his eyes slightly at his friend’s theatricality, but smirked slightly. He hadn’t been out with Blaise for a little while, and he was finding he’d actually missed it. It felt good to act their age and not have to worry about work or crazed murderers.

Blaise turned perceptive eyes on him, his expression serious again, and he jerked his head towards the quieter end of the bar, leading the way past the club’s writhing dancefloor to where a couple of empty stools were.

“Right. Tell me.”

Draco waited until the bartender had delivered the redcurrant vodka shots Blaise had ordered for them, downing his first two in quick succession.

Blaise watched him with widened eyes. “Geez, go easy there, Draco.”

Draco grunted, taking a third shot, a little more slowly, and setting the glass down with a crack.

“I see signs of woman trouble,” Blaise commented smoothly, taking his first shot, and eyeing his friend slyly.

Draco rolled his eyes again, sneering slightly. “Woman trouble – not exactly. Trouble with a pig-headed, blind, interfering woman – yes. And trouble with my parents. _Unbelievable_ trouble with my father. Trouble with work. Trouble with just everything in general.”

Blaise downed his second and third shots. “Sounds like you need more drinks,” he waved at the bartender and another six shots were delivered.

Draco knocked back his three like they were water, feeling his head beginning to spin as he set the last glass down. He had a very high alcohol tolerance after abusing his system for so long, but six vodka shots on top of about four Firewhiskies was starting to get to him.

“You want to talk about it?” Blaise asked, taking his fourth shot.

Draco shook his head, then stopped as it made his brain feel like it was rattling around the inside of his skull.

“Get wasted with women?” Blaise suggested, finishing his other two shots.

“Yeah,” Draco managed, his mouth extremely dry in spite of his drinking. He waved at the bartender for a Gillywater, gulping it down.

“Right,” Blaise clapped his hands together. “Where’d that blonde witch go? She had a friend…”

 

Draco woke up the next morning face down on an unfamiliar bed.

He wrinkled his nose at the stale smell, and came to the very quick realisation that he was not at home. There was no way his house elves would let his bed or any part of his apartment get as disgusting as this. He could smell old sweat, body odour, and sex.

With a great effort, he lifted himself up on his elbows, peeling his face from the sheet, and opening his eyes with great difficulty.

He was in a poorly furnished garret apartment, and a girl with green streaks through her blonde hair was lying beside him, her face turned into a makeup-smudged pillow.

Draco restrained a groan, cursing himself for drinking so much the previous night. He never stayed the night, and he was quite sure that if he hadn’t been so plastered he would never have come away from the club with a witch like this. He recalled why he’d gone out in the first place – his anger with Granger and the things he’d said to his parents – and cursed himself for not drinking more.

He got up quickly, his head pounding with an unrelenting hangover, scrabbling about for his discarded clothes. He was fairly sure he hadn’t taken them off himself. He regarded the comatose female in the bed once he had his trousers on. She really wasn’t that attractive looking like that. Although, truth be told, he couldn’t even remember her, let alone whether she’d been attractive last night. He didn’t recall any contraceptives being used, but then he didn’t recall much of the previous night at all. Drinking with Blaise, his head spinning with the fluorescent lights on the dancefloor, and pounding with the too-loud music and the overture of the hangover he was currently experiencing, women pressing against him…the rest was blotted out. Forcing himself to focus, he pointed his wand at her, casting a morning-after contraceptive charm, and then giving himself a quick scouring charm in the event she wasn’t clean. The last thing he needed on top of everything else was a rampant STI. That had happened once. _Not_ pleasant.

The girl began to stir, and he spun quickly, apparating home.

 

Draco remembered that it was Monday halfway through his shower. The clock was well on its way towards noon, and he arrived at the Ministry with his hair still wet.

“Late night,” he grunted as he let himself into the office, taking great care not to let the door bang shut behind him.

Harry grinned, recognising the signs of a momentous hangover, and jerked his head at the filing cabinets. “Use the third key. There should be a bottle of Humberto’s Hellish Hangover Cure in there somewhere.”

Draco nodded his thanks, wincing slightly as the movement made the room spin, and headed over to the filing cabinet, appreciating its presence for once. He had his own brews for hangovers, but at the moment he didn’t have a great deal of faith in his potion-making abilities.

“Drink too much, Malfoy?” Hermione asked lightly, restraining a smirk of amused disapproval as he shuddered at the crash of the cabinet door opening. She debated whether or not to mention that his hair was still wet and dribbling water down the back of his neck and inside his collar, and decided against it. There was little sense in provoking him, especially as he seemed to have calmed down since yesterday.

He grunted.

Hermione giggled silently, grinning over at Harry, and returned to her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, Draco...nothing like a hangover to teach you a lesson XD
> 
> So not too much really happens in terms of action in this chapter, but I think it's a bit of a fun one. I always enjoy exploring other areas of the wizarding world and life. It's only a short one, unfortunately, as it used to be much longer but had to be split. I will try to post the next one quite soon in April :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
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	13. Wands and Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krum has misgivings, Hermione has a break through, and Draco makes a gesture.

Things settled back into their established routine. Harry was going to have another attempt at Yaxley and Rookwood in hopes that one might crack or let something useful slip. Hermione had muttered something about an idea regarding the wand that had killed the victims and had hurried down to the morgue to test her theory without explaining it. Harry had given her that area of the investigation to prevent her from going insane trying to find information out about curing the Mark, and Draco forced himself to check through the reports from Potter’s investigation teams to see if there were any clues specific to the Death Eaters they were searching for, having concluded all possible research into numbers and runes with little information to further their knowledge about the pattern of the victims.

Draco felt worse than the previous day, even with the help of the hangover potion. Usually a night out with Blaise and bedding a woman he would never have to see again were something of a pick-me-up, and had been his favoured method of stress release in the early years of establishing his potions businesses. Now, however, he simply felt washed out. He had been too drunk the previous night to really remember much, and even if it had he felt certain that he hadn’t really enjoyed it. He had gone through the motions, expecting the load on his shoulders to be lifted if he just kept going, for the blissful weightlessness to kick in if only he could push his tired, strung out body far enough, but no matter how many drinks he had downed, no matter how many kisses he’d stolen on the dance floor, or how enthusiastically the witch had fallen into bed with him, nothing had made him feel better. If anything it had added another weight to the burden, and that made him uncomfortable.

Hermione came up from the morgue shortly before lunch, glowing with excitement. The change in her expression was enough to alert both men instantly.

“We’ve found a difference.”

She turned to the drawers and opened them. In one was the man with the E carved into his chest from the first group murder, and in the other was Mr Parkinson, also with an E. Hermione gave Draco an apologetic glance that slid off him.

With the bodies side by side it became clear what the difference was. In the Bulgarian, the letter was comparatively shallow, about two inches deep, and extremely wide. The skin and flesh along the sides of the gouge were tattered as though roughly torn. The cuts made to Mr Parkinson were different. Slimmer, twice as deep, almost severing the entire way through his chest, and the incisions were neat.

“Was it a different spell?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Definitely the same spell. We just have no idea which one. We’ve tested all the known severing and gouging spells, but it’s none of them – it’ll be one of the ancient torture curses, I expect. But the same one was used both times – the emanation is the same. The one used in the first group murder was less controlled – almost…raw. The one in the second group murder was directed. It could be a difference in the caster.”

“So we may have more than one murderer.” Harry’s heart dropped.

“We’ll have to run some more tests,” Hermione said quickly. “It could also be that they didn’t have the hang of the spell to begin with, and their technique was sloppy. We just don’t know yet. There’s no point in jumping to conclusions.”

Harry nodded, calming his thudding heart.

Hermione shut the drawers then glanced at Malfoy. “Do you feel up to training?”

Draco swallowed slightly, but stood up, resolute. “I’ll be fine.”

Hermione shot him a concerned glance as he marched to the door, giving Harry a raised eyebrow, but Harry shrugged.

 

“So, have you thought anymore about what I asked?” Hermione called as she dodged the stunning spell Malfoy had sent in her direction.

She had cast a disillusionment charm over herself today to train Draco’s eye for spotting people disguised under the charm, and the S.T.E. had provided them with a forest filled with shifting dappled shadows for added difficulty.

Confusion flushed through Draco, cooling him despite the heat from his exertions. Granger didn’t make finding her easy, and she ran like a deer. He hadn’t really expected that what with the amount of time she had seemed to spend in the library in school. “What did you ask?”

“About talking to your parents,” Hermione called, ducking behind a tree as she spoke for added camouflage. “In my letter.”

“Ah.” Draco’s mind drifted to the crumpled page in the bin under his desk at home, a vision of his father’s enraged face rising in his mind.

Hermione could hear the reticence in Malfoy’s voice. “You think it’s a bad idea?” She dodged the Body-Bind curse he flashed around the trunk.

 _That’s one way of putting it…_ “Well…my mother might meet you, although I can’t make any undertaking for her behaviour,” he said slowly, pausing as he rushed up to her previous hiding place as quietly as possible. “ _Impedimenta!_ But my father…”

Hermione had felt the wave of Malfoy’s jinx ruffle her hair, and popped out from behind the shrub she had hidden behind, meeting his eyes. “Doesn’t like me? I understand.”

“Well there _is_ that as well,” Draco muttered, his wand dropping to his side.

Hermione chuckled. “I guess they’re still fairly upset that I interrupted your night at the opera on Saturday.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. The incident at the opera certainly hadn’t warmed his parents to her, but there was more than that after the argument. And he could hardly tell her that his father’s blood prejudices were as deeply ingrained as ever, whatever he might threaten.

Hermione shook her head. “That’s fine. It can wait – I have enough to work with for the moment. All right, that’s enough for today.” She rapped herself on the head, and the charm trickled off. “You’ve got a good eye for spotting, Malfoy.”

Draco allowed a faint grin. “Yeah, well, if you’re going to make it easier for me running around all the time,” he smirked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, flicking her wand so the simulation faded. “Variety is the spice of life, don’t you know, Malfoy?”

Draco smirked, “What would you know about that? All you do is work.”

Hermione snorted. “From what I can see that’s all you do too.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “That’s all you know. I thought you were past judging books by their covers, Granger.” His grin met hers, and a faint thrill ran thorough him.

Hermione tilted her head slightly in deference to his words. “Of course – I forgot your hangover this morning. Have fun did you?” she shot him a sly glance, grinning.

Draco’s face twisted at the memory, and he shook his head with an expression of chagrin. “Not in the slightest.”

Hermione laughed. Draco stared at her; he didn’t think he’d ever made Granger laugh before. He rather liked the sound. Her eyes crinkled up at the corners, and her cheeks rose until they were almost shut, just twinkling lines, her nose wrinkling slightly at the bridge. The expression suited her. Even more so when he was the cause of it.

He wondered idly whether he would have enjoyed last night if she’d been the one he’d spent it with. He certainly wouldn’t have gotten drunk enough to forget it. Merlin, _no_ ; he wouldn’t want to forget _that_. He allowed himself a faint grin in response to the twinkle-eyed smile she was still giving him.

“Herm-own-ninny.”

Draco’s smile faded, replaced with an expression of shuttered anger.

Krum walked across the arena towards them, eyeing Hermione’s attire with confusion and a faintly appreciative look that Draco didn’t like. He had to admit she did look good in the ridiculous Muggle getup. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but appreciate her figure when they sparred, revealed as it was by the clinging outfit. She was fit. _Really_ fit. She was still smaller than him, but he she was fast on her feet, and he knew from experience that she had a strong right hook – probably from carrying all those books. She was a bit curvier than she had been when they were at school – either because she had grown up or because under the swamping of their uniforms it was impossible to tell – and her wild hair had been tamed, to a degree. What was more, the sweat glistening on her skin as it did by the end of their more active sessions really didn’t detract from her appeal.

“Viktor,” Hermione smiled, “it’s not lunch already?”

“Vun o’clock.”

“Sorry.”

Krum waved away the apology, his eyes settling on Malfoy. The two men sized one another up, verging on glaring while Hermione was distracted with making herself presentable again, transfiguring her training gear back into her usual work attire.

“How did you get in here?” Draco demanded. “The Auror Training Facility is protected.”

“Potter let me in,” Krum answered coldly. He glanced at Hermione, extending an arm to her. “Are you ready, Herm-own-ninny?”

Hermione nodded. “See you later, Malfoy,” she smiled over Krum’s protective arm.

Draco jerked his chin in acknowledgement, watching as they left up the spiral staircase before he stalked out himself.

 

“I do not like the vay he looks at you,” Krum muttered, staring at his half eaten steak.

Hermione frowned. “Who?”

“Malfoy.”

Hermione’s expression cleared and she laughed. “He glares at everyone, Viktor.”

“Except you.”

“What?” Hermione stopped eating to look at Viktor, genuinely confused. “How do you mean?”

Krum shifted a little, his expression surly, but didn’t seem about to explain his enigmatic statement. “Just do not let your guard down. His father vos a Death Eater, his mother helped them, and he vos vun too. You can never be too careful around Dark vizards.”

“Viktor,” Hermione’s tone was ameliorating. “He let me use Legilimency on him. Malfoy is trustworthy. He’s just…” she cast about for a word that would fit the man, “detached…and odd.” Her mind returned to that odd sense of comradeship that had risen up once more when they were training. And yet he had been cold the moment Viktor arrived. Almost like the Malfoy from school. She began eating again. “He probably thinks it’s risky letting you know so much about the case and resents your being let in on things without having to sign a contract or anything.”

Krum’s mood lightened a little. “Did he sign vun of your contracts?”

Hermione nodded.

“And nothing happened to him?”

“Nothing.”

Krum grunted looking a little disappointed.

Hermione laughed. “I wouldn’t have trusted him as much as I do if I hadn’t seen into his mind, Viktor. I completely understand where you’re coming from though – especially as Malfoy’s not exactly the most welcoming of people. Just…try to ignore him. It’s not for long.”

“And vot about vot he and his family did to you? I haff not forgotten vot you told me.” Krum’s stern expression softened with his concern.

Hermione sighed at that. “I’ve forgiven him.”

Krum blinked in surprise.

“I can’t hold him accountable for what his family did to me. And yes, he hurt me – I’m not denying that, and he was completely horrible when we were kids. But…I understand his side of it. And while I don’t agree with the reasoning, I can’t condemn him for it. It’s better for me to move on.”

Krum pursed his lips, returning to his steak.

After a few minutes he set down his knife and fork again.

“Come back to Bulgaria vith me.”

Hermione frowned, looking up at the seriousness of his tone. “Viktor… I’m sorry, but I don’t think –”

“No,” Krum interrupted, “as a friend. I do not like you being here, Herm-own-ninny. Alone in your house. Not vith this murderer loose. You said Muggle-borns vere targets for them. You are not safe. You vould be safe in Bulgaria. You could stay as long as you needed. You said you vould like to come back sometime – and it is nearly vinter. You vould love Christmas there.”

Hermione’s expression creased with a sad smile. “I’m touched, Viktor, truly. But you know I can’t possibly do that. And I do want to come back to Bulgaria to see you again, just…not now. Maybe if I wasn’t involved on the case, but I am involved. I can’t just leave Harry and Malfoy to do it alone. It’s not fair to them, it’s not fair to the wizarding community, and it goes against my own convictions.”

Krum’s expression told her that he had known she would say this already. “It vos vorth a try.”

He smiled ruefully, and she returned it.

Krum’s smile was short lived, however as he sighed. “I vorry about you, Herm-own-ninny.”

She reached out to take his hand. “There’s no need to. I’ve seen worse than this, remember.”

Krum frowned. “That is vot makes me vorry. You haff got to be careful. Just because you haff seen vurse than this does not mean it is not dangerous. I know you can handle yourself, but do not take unnecessary risks.”

“I will be careful. Harry’s the impulsive one.” Hermione smiled hopefully.

Krum caved, and gave her the hint of a smile back. “Very vell. But only because you give me no other option.”

Hermione grinned.

 

Draco spent the rest of the day huffing – even after Granger returned, going straight back down to the morgue to continue working on the bodies with several texts of cutting spells.

He’d barely acknowledged her return, eager at first to see that she was back, keenly analysing her for signs of a blooming romance between her and Krum, bitter but relieved when she seemed only to be happy, brushing off her cheerful hello when she noticed his eyes on her.

Hermione had shot Harry a confused glance, but he had shrugged, just as nonplussed as her by Malfoy’s fluctuating behaviour, but now used to it, and well aware that little good would come of prying into his business.

Hermione put the issues to one side. She suspected it was entirely to do with resentment of Viktor’s presence that changed Malfoy’s mood so dramatically, and that she could live with. Viktor would be returning to Bulgaria the next day, and then things in the office would be back to normal, and Malfoy could return to being slightly less standoffish. The mystery solved, she focused instead on trying to determine whether the gouges on the bodies had been created by the same caster, pleased to at last be making some sort of headway, although the unfinished work on the Mark niggled at her.

That area of her investigation had stalled somewhat. Having scoured all the Dark texts she could get her hands on for clues or hints of information, first about how the Mark was cast and who might cast it, and then about how such a spell might be created, she had moved on to trying to reverse engineer the curse. She had drawn up several theoretical methods of how Voldemort might have fashioned the spell, but was reluctant to test them, well aware of the dangers involved in testing out new spells, particularly ones so Dark in nature.

Leaving her ideas to one side, she had moved on to looking at the reverse side of magic. Malfoy had provided her with an extensive list of treatments and cures that he had attempted, and they varied from Dark and questionable magic to very ancient light magic that was of a similar ilk to the sacrificial charm Harry’s mother had invoked to protect Harry from Voldemort. She hadn’t read much in the area, and was still in the process of sourcing the books, relieved at last to be leaving behind curses that caused bone degeneration or burst open the ventricles of the heart, even if it was only temporarily.

She very much hoped that something in that brand of good magic would be the key to reversing the Mark, as by all accounts attempting to curse off the brand had not worked for Malfoy. She was reluctant to think of the lengths he had gone to while scanning the lists he had provided, which included the experience and effects of each attempt, even the most excruciating written out in detached detail. It made her look at him with a new respect that was mixed with an edge of concern. He clearly had no desire to retain his Mark, but his wish to remove it had taken him to terrifying extremes, and she could only wonder at how high his pain threshold was.

 

They all worked late that night again. Harry had been taken off by some Aurors on another case involving what appeared to be a magical break-in at Gringotts, Draco was looking into a lead that had been turned in by one of the investigation teams about a sighting of a man who might have been Rodolphus Lestrange in Yorkshire without much hope of his uncle actually being so stupid, and Hermione was yet to resurface from the morgues.

Harry returned, weary from negotiating with the goblins, and without any conclusive evidence of the break-in. It seemed that one of the old vaults had been disturbed, but the goblins insisted that there were no signs of a forced entry and had resolutely refused any interference from the Aurors. Harry suspected that they still resented the fact that he had been involved in the break-in to the Lestrange’s vault back in ninety-eight, but that was to be expected. The Goblins didn’t forget such things, and they were even less likely to forgive.

“Hermione still around?”

Draco nodded, forcing his eyes open.

Harry bobbed his head silently, taking a seat and closing his eyes for a moment. Dealing with goblins was always trying.

“Does she _ever_ take a break?” Draco asked wearily in an attempt to remain conscious, turning a page.

Harry mustered a chuckle. “Not really. I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t compulsory to take leave she’d completely forget to have holidays.”

“But _why_? I mean, I’m used to long hours, but _this_ …”

Harry shrugged. “Hermione genuinely enjoys learning…working hard provides that. And when something hooks her emotionally as well as intellectually she finds it impossible to let go.” Harry sighed a little. “In the wrong job I don’t think she would be able to apply herself so rigorously though. It’s part of the reason why she changed to our department. She felt she’d done all she could in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Draco nodded. It made sense. He’d thrown everything he had into starting his businesses and he’d genuinely enjoyed it. He wasn’t so sure if he could do the same for everything though.

The grating of the concealed lift in Harry’s filing cabinets sounded, and a few moments later the front swung open to reveal Hermione, who scrambled out.

“Oh good, I thought you might not still be here.” She looked a little nervous, and dithered on the spot for a moment before going to perch on the edge of her desk, a stack of scrolls behind her teetering precariously.

Harry watched her closely. “News?”

“Mm.” Hermione picked at some lint on her robes, then took a breath, forcing her hands to still in her lap. “The spell was cast by the same person,” she began slowly, her eyes fixed on her fingernails.

“But?” Harry prompted, sensing there was more.

Hermione pursed her lips, then met Harry’s gaze very directly. “The first time it was wandless magic.”

There was a silence.

Harry and Draco’s faces had drained of blood.

“So we’re dealing with an extremely advanced practitioner of magic then,” Harry said lowly when his voice returned to him. He didn’t even bother to dispute the knowledge. Hermione would never impart such information lightly or without thoroughly testing it beforehand. “I guess that was always on the cards.”

Hermione took a breath. “Or a child,” she said quietly.

Harry and Draco’s heads shot up to stare at her, nonplussed.

“That’s not possible,” Harry refuted instantly.

“I hope it’s not,” Hermione replied roughly, her calm demeanour cracking slightly. “I really hope it’s not a child who’s doing this, because Merlin knows what would have to be done to them to go on a homicidal killing spree.” Her voice caught with the hiccup of a sob, and the men briefly contemplated her words. It didn’t bear thinking about.

“It’s not a child,” Harry said, decisively this time.

“Harry you can’t just rule it out like that,” Hermione argued brokenly, visibly fighting tears now.

Draco watched, silent and shocked, some part of him rebelling at the idea of Granger crying. She was always so strong, and the last time he had seen her in tears was on the floor of the Manor. Her tears brought back only dark memories for him.

Hermione hadn’t finished however. “I don’t want to think it possible as much as you don’t, but that doesn’t mean we can just shut our eyes to it.”

“I’m not shutting my eyes, Hermione,” Harry said patiently. “You’re forgetting the Dark Marks. There’s no way a child would be able to cast them – or to _know_ how to cast them. They’d need a wand – and a child young enough to use wandless magic wouldn’t have a wand. Even if they did, how could they possibly have the strength to cast the spell?”

“And what if there was an adult helping them?”

Harry shook his head. “No, Hermione. I know I said I’d be open minded with the case, and you’ve done an extraordinary job finding this information out, but no. This is going too far. If it was a damaged child, why would an adult – presumably a Death Eater – team up with them? What purpose would it serve? They would have to Imperius the child, and take them away from their parents without anyone noticing for several months. Even if they obliviated the parents there would be the relations, neighbours, friends. It’s not possible. No one would go to that much trouble just to use a child to kill people. There are easier ways of concealing your identity.”

Hermione calmed as Harry spoke, a weight visibly lifting from her. “Sorry, Harry,” she muttered, sniffing strongly. “I…”

“You were concerned,” Harry said kindly. “That’s perfectly natural. You’re tired, Hermione; go home, and get some rest.”

Hermione shook her head, rallying. “That’s not all, Harry.” Her eyes flickered to Draco for a moment before returning to her hands, her fingers tangling once more. “The cuts…they feel… _very similar_ to mine.” She gestured reluctantly towards the arm Bellatrix had carved into. “The ones on the second group more so than the first.” The words came out as a miserable whisper. “I had the Squad test my scars to be sure.”

Harry and Draco exchanged concerned glances.

“That’s not possible, Granger. She’s dead.” Draco spoke adamantly. There was no way Bellatrix could have returned. None of Voldemort’s followers had known about his horcruxes – there was no way his aunt could have made one. He himself hadn’t even found out about them until he’d talked to Potter.

“But it’s so similar,” Hermione lifted her head, staring directly into Malfoy’s eyes, her own faintly begging. “I’ve used her wand – I know how it feels…and the cuts in those bodies are next to identical.”

Draco moved to take her firmly by the upper arms, unaware that he had stood and crossed the room to her until she was before him, some instinct telling him she needed him to shake her out of it. “She’s dead, Granger. Dead. And she had no way of coming back – none at all. Do you understand me?”

Hermione stared into his eyes, silvery grey and intense, their message boring into her. He seemed inordinately steady in that moment, perhaps not a shoulder to cry on, but certainly a rock to cling to. She let out a sigh that took with it her anxieties, and nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured, dropping her eyes.

Draco regarded her for a moment longer, then released her, taking a measured step back and glancing at the thoughtful looking Potter.

“We should still investigate it,” Harry said firmly.

“What?” Draco couldn’t believe his ears.

“We should, Malfoy. A wand similar to Bellatrix’s in the hands of the murderer might produce a similar effect. It would certainly help us narrow down our suspects if we had their wand specifications – we’ll probably even be able to get a list of owners. We’ll speak with Ollivander tomorrow morning – early, before the shops open. Just to confirm the wandlore.”

Draco forced a breath out through his nose, frowning with disapproval, but nodded curtly.

Harry moved to hug Hermione. “You did well. Really well. We haven’t had an advance like this in the case for ages. It might be a turning point.”

Hermione mustered a tired smile.

“Go home, Hermione. Rest. We’ll be starting early tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded. Her whole body had been wailing to go to bed the entire day, it had only been will power and Girding Potions that had kept her on her feet this long.

“Night, Harry…Malfoy.” She waved her wand tiredly at her things. The books and papers slithered half-heartedly towards her bag, which flopped open onto the floor.

“I’ll do it,” Draco brushed past Granger before she could try again, scooping up her bag in one hand and waving his wand firmly at her things, sending them neatly into it.

“Thanks.” Hermione reached for the strap in Malfoy’s hand, but he pulled back.

“You can barely keep yourself upright, Granger. Take this bag and you’ll collapse. I’ll take it back to yours with you.”

His tone brooked no argument, and Hermione was too tired to dissent or wonder at his behaviour. She simply nodded.

A wave to Harry, and a brisk nod from Draco, and they stepped together into the office fire, spinning towards Hermione’s home.

 

“Thanks, Draco, you really didn’t need to.” Hermione fought not to simply collapse onto the sofa. With the fire burning the warmth and the half-light of her front room made the settee look extremely inviting.

“It’s nothing,” he replied shortly. Draco eyed her. She’d used his first name again. She was probably too tired to realise what came out of her mouth.

He glanced around, looking for signs of Krum, but the Bulgarian didn’t seem to have made his mark on Granger’s home. _Good._

“Where’s Krum?” he struggled to keep the antagonism out of his tone.

“In bed asleep if he has any sense,” Hermione replied sleepily, trying to decide on whether she’d put her shower off till the morning, which would mean waking up early, or try to stay awake long enough to do it now.

Draco grunted in response, struggling not to consider whether Granger would have used enlargement charms to accommodate guest rooms in the tiny house. “Where do you want this?” he dangled the bag at her.

“Hm? Oh…somewhere. Anywhere will do.”

Draco cast about, and put the heavy bag on the armchair nearest him. He turned back to the fire and Granger. “Well. I’ll be going then.” He could hear the faint reticence in his tone and hoped she was too tired to notice it.

“Mm,” Hermione regarded him through half lidded eyes, smiling slightly. The firelight warmed his face, bringing more colour into it. It was quite odd seeing him tinted amber. “Good night, Draco.”

Draco stared at her intently. “Good night…Hermione.” Then he threw Floo powder into the flames, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, one chapter, delivered early in April!
> 
> So things are starting to move along a bit! Hehehe. I do love the ending of this one!  
> But let's do this chronologically.  
> The training session. OMG Draco just think the thoughts already! You fancy her. Of course, our Draco is a silly boy and realising something as obvious as that right now is as likely as him and Krum getting married.  
> And speaking of Krum... Oooooh that timing! Nothing like a bit of sort of cock-blocking amirite?  
> I do love Viktor though. My cinnamon roll <3 Sure he likes Hermione, but he genuinely does want the best for her, tender feelings aside. Such a sweetheart. And LOOOOL for Draco's continued jealousy.  
> And what did you all think of Hermione's little break through? The fear of it being a child... And what about that Bellatrix possibility, eh? Do I hear the gears in your brains whirring with theories?  
> And of course. Draco. Being a darling <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I (obviously) did!
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment or bookmark :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
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